L&EEEI2 


I  -FRANK  A  BATES- 


STORIES    OF 

LAKE,    FIELD 

..  .AND  ... 

FOREST. 

Rambles  of  a  Sportsman -Naturalist. 


With  Ten  Half-Tone  Engravings. 


By 
FRANK   A. -BATES, 

(Matasiso.) 

Author    of   "Game  Birds  of  North  America;"    "Rambles   of  an 
Entomologist;  "    "  Wanderings  in  New  Hampshire;"  etc. 


SOUTH  BRAINTREE,   MASS.: 

FRANK  A.  BATES, 

SCIENTIFIC   AND  HISTORICAL  BOOKS, 
1899. 


Copyright  1899 
By  FRANK  A.  BATES. 


Weymouth  and  Braintree  Publishing  Co. 
Printers. 


CONTENTS. 


1.  GROUSE   SHOOTING  EXTRAORDINARY. 

2.  FLY-FISHING   FOR    WHITE  PERCH. 

3.  GOOSE   SHOOTING. 

4.  PERCH  FISHING. 

5.  A    TALE    OF    WINNEPESAUKEE. 

6.  HORN  POUT  FISHING. 

7.  THE   FOX   WE  DID   NOT   GET. 

8.  INSECT  HUNTING  IN   WINTER. 

9.  LAKE    TROUT  FISHING. 

10.  THE  NATURALIST  IN  THE  WHITE 
MOUNTAINS, 


/  sat  by  the  shore  of  the  sounding  sea, 

And  a  siceet,  sad  song  it  sang  to  me. 

It  sang  of  vessels  buried  deep, 

And  men  entranced  in  death's  deep  sleep. 

It  sang  of  battles,  whose  terrible  roar 

Resounded  loud  from  shore  to  shore. 

It  sang  of  monsters  ichose  slimy  forms 

Clove  the  shining  waters,  deep-hid  from  storms. 

Then  the  musii  changed  and  it  sang  of  the  sim, 
Whose  glittering  beams  made  the  ripples  run 
In  glistening  lines  to  the  sandy  shore, 
Where  lovers  walked  by  the  breakers'  roar. 
Where  beautiful  shells  in  silence  crept, 
And  fishes  swam  and  sea-birds  slept. 
And  it  told  me  to  listen,  then  tell  their  lore 
To  the  readers,  who  run  these  pages  o'er. 


GROUSE  SHOOTING 
EXTRAORDINARY. 


GROUSE    SHOOTING     EXTRAORDINARY. 


had  been  a  hard  day  in  the  fields,  for 
the  birds  were  wild  and  wary.  And 
when  we  drew  up  our  chairs  around  the 
fire,  after  supper,  it  was  with  a  sigh  of  relief 
to  get  our  boots  off. 

After  the  pipes  were  lighted,  a  comparison 
of  experiences  was  inaugurated,  and  B.  told 
how  the  old  cock  partridge  had  dodged  be- 
hind a  cedar,  just  about  as  soon  as  he  got  up 
from  the  covert ;  while  P.  told  of  his  sur- 
prise when  he  flushed  a  bird,  and  it  fell  to  a 
shot  from  a  thicket  close  by,  just  as  he  caught 
sight  of  it,  and  Will  stepped  out  to  retrieve 
his  bird,  and  was  just  about  as  surprised  to 
see  P.  standing  there  with  gun  at  a  ready. 

If  you  want  to  hear  stories  of  gunning, 
fishing  or  anything  else,  in  their  pristine 
vigor,  you  want  to  s>it  over  a  rock-maple  fire, 
in  the  kitchen  of  a  gunning  camp,  after  the 
day's  sport  is  over,  and  hear  them  as  they 
drop  fresh  from  the  lips  of  the  actors  them- 


8  LAKE,   FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

selves,  unattended  by  the  results  of  forget- 
fulness  from  the  lapse  of  time,  or  fear  of  the 
blue  pencil  of  the  editor. 

On  this  particular  evening,  however,  one 
of  our  circle  was  a  professional  man  from  the 
city,  who  had  been  a  great  traveller,  and  who, 
in  the  course  of  his  varied  experience,  had 
been  an  officer  in  the  U.  S.  Regular  Army. 

The  talk  had  been  mainly  upon  the  tricks 
and  dodges  of  the  wily  ruffed  grouse,  or 
partridge,  as  he  was  termed  by  our  coterie. 
And  by  the  way,  "for  ways  that  are  dark, 
and  tricks  that  are  vain,"  this  bird  can  give 
aces  to  any  other  bird  and  win  out  every  time. 

Finally  our  friend,  whom  we  will  term  the 
Doctor,  spoke  up  and  said  : 

"You  fellows  have  been  telling  how  smart 
and  tricky  your  grouse  were  here  (and  I 
fully  agree  with  you)  what  do  you  think  of 
killing  nearly  as  many  grouse  with  stones, 
as  twenty  men  did  with  guns,  and  in  less 
time?" 

"O,  come  off!  Doc.  tell  that  to  the  chil- 
dren !"  was  the  cry  from  all  directions. 

"Well,  its  so,"  said  the  Doctor,  "and  I 
was  the  one  who  did  it." 


GROUSE  SHOOTING  EXTRAORDINARY.    V 

"Let's  have  the  story,"  said  every  one  and 
the  chairs  were  hitched  up  a  little  closer. 

"I  was  looking  at  that  prairie  chicken  in 
the  case  in  the  other  room,  while  I  was  wait- 
ing for  supper  and  thinking  about  the  work 
that's  being  done  here  in  Massachusetts  to  re- 
stock the  covers  with  imported  game  birds, 
and  it  brought  back  some  of  the  times  I've 
had  shooting  in  the  west.  By  the  way,  where 
was  that  bird  shot,  and  Avhen  ?" 

"I  shot  it,"  said  Will,  right  here  in  Win- 
chendon,  on  the  sixth  day  of  November,  1896. 
I  thought  it  was  a  partridge  when  it  got  up, 
and  I  did  not  find  out  what  it  was  till  I  picked 
it  up.  I  know  of  two  others  that  were  shot 
near  here,  in  the  same  way,  and  one  was 
found  dead  beside  the  road,  where  it  fell, 
after  it  struck  the  telephone  wire.  I  would 
not  have  shot  the  one  I  did,  if  I  had  known 
what  it  was." 

"Well,  there's  no  doubt  that  it  was  one  of 
those  that  were  put  out  around  Fitchburg,  is 
there  ?" 

"Oh,  no!  that's  where  it  came  from  all 
right.  But  lets  have  that  story  about  stoning 
partridges  to  death." 


10  LAKE,  FIELD  AXD  FOREST. 

"It  was  not  exactly  stoning  partridges, 
for  they  were  blue  grouse  ((7.  obscura). 

While  I  was  stationed  at  Fort  Spokane,  in 
Washington,  in  1884,  we  were  supplied  with 
a  certain  number  of  shotguns  and  ammuni- 
tion therefor  by  the  Government,  to  be  used 
in  supplying  the  Post  with  game,  and  upon 
requisition ,  they  would  be  served  out  to  the 
men,  when  they  desired  to  go  shooting,  but 
many  of  the  men  preferred  to  use  their  rifles, 
for  the  grouse  will  run  about  upon  the 
ground,  and  when  flushed  they  fly  to  the 
trees,  where  one  can  easily  secure  them  by  a 
shot  in  the  neck  or  fore  part  of  the  body, 
but  if  you  hit  them  from  behind  in  the  back- 
bone, there  will  be  but  little  of  the  bird  left 
to  carry  to  camp. 

One  lovely  day  in  July,  about  twenty  men, 
some  with  ponies  and  some  without,  started 
out  grouse  shooting  in  various  directions. 
Not  feeling  very  much  like  this  sort  of  sport, 
and  still  desiring  to  take  a  little  walk,  I 
vainly  endeavored  to  convince  some  one  that 
they  could  not  do  better  than  to  accompany 
me,  and  finally  started  off  alone  up  toward  a 
ravine,  where  it  was  reported  that  the  berries 
were  thick,  and  without  a  ^un,  for  I  did  not 


GROUSE  SHOOTING  EXTRAORDINARY.   11 

care  to  be  bothered  with  the  weight  of  a 
Springfield  rifle  on  a  warm  day  in  July.  I 
hunted  for  the  berries  for  some  time  without 
success  and  at  last  came  to  the  Government 
wood-pile,  where  I  found  a  team  and  outfit, 
provisions,  fire  smouldering,  etc.,  but  no  one 
about.  This  was  perhaps  no  unusual  occur- 
rence, but  it  was  very  convenient  later  on. 

Farther  on,  I  saw  a  lot  of  little  grouse  run- 
ning about  in  the  grass,  then  some  larger 
ones,  and  finally  flushed  some  large  old  birds, 
which  lit  in  some  trees  just  above.  One  of 
them  settled  himself  cosily  upon  a  limb,  and 
sat  there,  cocking  his  head  at  me  from  side 
to  side,  looking,  for  all  the  world,  like  an 
old  hen.  Just  for  fun,  I  picked  up  a  stone 
and  threw  it  at  him,  but  he  never  even 
moved.  This  promised  a  little  sport,  so  I 
drew  up  on  to  the  side  of  the  ravine  about  to 
a  level  with  the  bird,  where  there  seemed  to 
to  be  an  abundance  of  this  sort  of  ammuni- 
tion, and  commenced  a  fusilade  upon  him,  of 
which  he  took  no  notice,  until  a  large,  slow- 
flying  missile  took  him  on  the  side  of  the 
body,  and  he  deigned  to  move  about  a  foot 
along  the  limb.  Another  smaller  one,  trav- 
elling with  more  force,  took  him  in  the  head 


12  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

and  he  dropped  off  the  limb  dead.  I  followed 
up  the  same  tactics  upon  the  balance  of  the 
flock,  and  before  long  had  two  old  birds  and 
four  half  grown  young,  when  I  got  tired  of 
throwing  stones. 

I  went  back  to  the  outfit,  confiscated  some 
salt-pork  and  flour,  stirred  up  their  fire,  and 
cut  up  two  of  my  young  birds  in  their  pan 
with  some  pork,  cooked  them,  thickened  the 
fat  with  flour  for  gravy,  and  as  the  birds 
were  young  and  tender,  I  enjoyed  a  much 
better  meal  than  I  would  have  had  at  the 
mess  table. 

I  got  back  to  camp  with  two  old  birds  and 
two  young  ones,  and  when  tattoo  was  beaten, 
none  of  the  men  who  went  out  with  guns  had 
brought  in  a  bird,  although  they  had  been 
hunting  them  all  day.  Just  before  taps,  two 
of  the  soldiers,  who  had  gone  twenty  miles 
up  the  river,  taking  turns  at  riding,  came  in 
with  quite  a  bunch,  but  I  nearly  beat  the 
crowd,  with  nothing  but  stones  for  ammuni- 
tion. 

The  character  of  the  blue  grouse  is  rather 
stolid,  and  indifferent,  but  when  they  start 
they  go  like  a  flash,  looking  like  a  blue  streak 


GROUSE  SHOOTING  EXTRAORDINARY.   13 

in  the  air,  and  as  they  were  heavy,  they 
made  quite  a  commotion  when  they  flesv. 

When  hunting  these  birds  in  the  winter, 
we  used  to  cross  the  river  and  take  to  the 
bank,  which  was  the  lower  of  six  terraces, 
and  go  over  a  piece  of  each  one  in  turn. 
The  birds  would  flush  from  the  lower  one 
which  was  covered  with  a  thick  mat  of  sage 
brush,  and  fly  up,  keeping  about  one  terrace 
in  advance  of  us.  The  second  terrace  was 
more  thinly  overgrown  with  the  brush  which 
was  mixed  with  a  bush  bearing  a  berry ,  upon 
which  the  birds  fed.  Each  terrace  is  more 
thinly  covered  as  you  rise  until  the  sixth  is 
reached,  which  is  covered  with  pines  ;  here 
the  birds  take  to  the  trees,  and  we  would 
knock  them  off  with  a  rifle  bullet. 

On  the  warmer  days  of  winter  they  would 
come  out  and  bask  in  the  sun,  on  the  bare 
spots,  between  the  bushes,  and  it  was  some- 
times, especially  when  there  was  a  crust,  no 
small  job  to  climb  up  the  steep  slopes  after 
them. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  this  is  not  one  of 
the  birds  to  be  imported  here,  the  gunners 
would  faint  at  the  idea  of  a  bird  that  did  not 
put  the  breadth  of  a  county  between  them, 


14  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

the  instant  of  being  flushed  ;  but  joking  one 
side,  it  does  not  seem  as  though  this  was  a 
bird  to  be  considered  desirable  from  a 
sportsman's  point  of  view,  although  they 
would  no  doubt  stand  the  climate,  since  the 
thermometer  runs  as  low  as  48  degrees  be- 
low zero  in  the  winter,  and  the  men  would 
sit  and  play  cards  with  their  overcoats  on, 
ear  laps  down,  and  the  edge  of  the  table 
within  six  inches  of  a  red-hot  stove. 
"Chain-lightning  whiskey"  (a  compound  of 
kerosene,  tobacco  and  murder)  would  freeze 
on  the  table,  but  yet  they  never  heard  of  a 
man  freezing. 

Summer  was  as  bad  the  other  way,  for 
the  mercury  was  at  116  degrees  on  the  par- 
ade ground  for  ten  days  together,  and  not  a 
drop  of  rain  all  summer. 

Still  the  change  might  have  an  injurious 
effect,  for  all  our  attempts  at  acclimatization 
of  birds  are  not  as  successful  as  that  of  the 
English  sparrow." 

"No,"  says  Will.  "None  of  the  birds, 
except  the  quail,  seemed  to  live  here  a  great 
while,  but  I  don't  see  any  reason  why  the 
pinnated  grouse  did  not  live  and  breed  here. 
There  used  to  be  plenty  of  them  here,  and 


GROUSE  SHOOTING  EXTRAORDINARY.   15 

there  are  some  now,  down  on  Martha's  Vine- 
yard. The  climate  can't  be  much  worse  for 
them  here,  than  it  is  on  the  prairies." 

"If  you  had  ever  been  out  on  the  grounds 
where  the  prairie  chickens  live  you  would 
change  your  mind,"  said  the  doctor."  The 
trouble  here,  I  think,  is  the  lack  of  proper 
food.  The  chicken  feeds  on  grain,  almost 
exclusively,  when  there  is  any,  but  of 
course  they  eat  enormous  quantities  of  grass- 
hoppers and  other  insects,  and  when  driven 
to  it  will  eat  buds  of  bushes,  but  they  pick 
up  lots  of  grain  on  the  stubble  in  the  large 
wheat  and  corn  fields  of  the  west  even  in 
winter. 

Now  you  know  that  our  partridge,  in  the 
winter,  feeds  almost  exclusively  on  buds  and 
seeds  of  bushes  ;  and  I  think  that  the  prairie 
hens  put  out  here,  did  not  find  their  accus- 
tomed food,  and  either  left  or  died.  At  any 
rate  very  few  of  them  ever  bred.  It  is 
mighty  risky  business,  trying  to  import  ani- 
mals to  new  countries ;  you  do  not  know 
what  turn  they  will  take. 

I  do  not  approve  of  introducing  the  Pheas- 
ant into  Massachusetts.  It  sounds  kind  of 
big,  but  from  what  I  have  seen  of  them  in 


16  LAKE,   FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

the  North  West,  I  would  rather  shoot  one 
partridge  than  a  dozen  of  them.  They  are 
quarrelsome  and  will  drive  out  our  grouse, 
for  they  will  kill*  all  the  young  birds  they 
come  across  and  keep  the  old  ones  so  dis- 
turbed that  they  will  not  breed  well.  Let's 
go  to  bed." 


FLY  FISHING  FOR 
WHITE  PERCH. 


FLY  FISHING  FOR  WHITE  PERCH. 


NCE  upon  a  time,  not  many  moons  ago, 
there  lived  in  the  colonial  town  of 
Plymouth,  a  character  by  the  name 
Bosworth ;  his  friends  called  him  "Les" 
but  he  would  answer  to  anything,  even 
the  dinner  bell.  Now  Les  was  nothing, 
if  not  a  sportsman.  •  A  good  shot,  handy 
with  the  rod,  something  of  a  naturalist,  he 
dearly  loved  his  gun  and  rod,  not  because 
they  killed  the  game  for  him,  but  because 
they  gave  him  an  excuse  for  tramping  the 
woods,  or  sitting  in  his  boat  on  the  pond. 
If  he  brought  home  a  string  of  fish  or  a 
bunch  of  birds,  he  was  happy,  if  not  he  was 
content,  for  he  brought  something  that  was 
not  as  visible,  but  fully,  as  satisfying,  which 
can  only  be  appreciated  by  the  lover  of  na- 
ture. 

Now,  Les  had  a  score  or  more  of  friends, 
and  they  liked  to  be  with  him,  whenever  the 
stars  were  favorable,  and  among  them  were 


20  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

two  who  have  to  do  with  this  story.  Never 
mind  whether  their  names  were  Smith,  Jones 
or  Brown,  or  whether  he  himself  gave  the 
name  of  Bos  worth  to  the  town  clerk  when  he 
went  to  get  his  marriage  certificate.  Its  all 
the  same.  "What's  in  a  name?"  You 
could  not  improve  the  flavor  of  a  catfish  if 
you  did  call  him  a  trout. 

But  to  our  two  sports.  The  first  and  most 
important,  in  his  own  estimation  at  least, 
was  Fred  David.  He  came  from  "way  down 
in  Maine "  and  his  head  would  never  brush 
the  cobwebs  off  a  barn  scaffold  unless  he 
stood  on  a  milk-pail  and  then  he  would  have 
to  reach ;  in  fact  he  made  excellent  ballast 
for  a  canoe,  for  when  he  sat  on  the  bottom 
it  was  almost  as  good  as  a  lead  keel. 

He  liked  to  go  fishing,  and  when  the  sec- 
ond of  this  trio,  wrho  we  will  call  Ike,  was 
likely  to  be  somewhere  near  Les,  Fred 
would  make  some  sort  of  an  excuse  at  the 
office,  that  his  grandmother  was  sick  or  the 
plumbing  was  frozen  up,  or  some  such  likely 
reason ,  and  would  start  for  home ;  but  the 
attraction  of  the  railroad  was  so  great,  he 
would  be  drawn  away  from  the  rectitude  of 


FLY   FISHING   FOR   WHITE    PERCH.          21 

his  path  and  would  find  himself  on  board  the 
train  for  Plymouth. 

Now  Ike  was  no  fisherman,  he  was  what 
the  sailors  call  a  Jonah,  he  did  not  care 
whether  the  fish  bit  or  not,  and  he  would  sit 
in  the  boat  and  stick  his  birch  pole  over  the 
side  and  let  the  little  fishes  nibble  off  his 
bait,  and  go  off  in  a  "dope"  and  wonder 
where  the  fish  lived  winters,  and  whether 
the  kingfisher,  which  was  swearing  at  him 
from  an  adjacent  stub,  speared  the  fish  or 
simply  picked  them  up  with  his  mouth,  or 
whether  or  no  the  dragon-flies  really  ate  the 
mosquitoes,  and  all  such  nonsense  of  no 
practical  use  to  sensible  people. 

Now  it  came  about,  through  the  progres- 
sion of  events,  that  these  three  uniques  of 
the  human  race,  were,  one  day  in  the  sultry 
month  of  August,  lounging  in  a  canoe  on  the 
placid  waters  of  Billington  Sea.  Ike  with 
his  corn-cob  pipe,  which  he  forgot  to  pull, 
and  his  birch  pole,  with  baitless  hook  dang- 
ling in  the  water.  Les,  with  his  old  rod,  deli- 
cately threaded  with  silken  line,  pulling  in  the 
fish  for  dinner,  while  Fred  sat  on  the  center 
thwart  for  ballast,  and  got  off  poor  jokes  on 
Ike,  changed  his  tackle  from  gimp-snelled 


22  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

bass-hook  to  No.  8  minnow  every  five  min- 
utes, alternating  with  a  rubber  frog  or  a 
Skinner  spoon  and  occasionally  pulling  in  a 
stray  sun-fish  which  had  lately  left  its  mother, 
and  had  not  yet  learned  it  must  not  put  too 
much  trust  in  appearances. 

"  Well"  says  Fred,  when  for  four  minutes 
he  had  allowed  his  hook  to  stop  in  the  water, 
"  I  do  not  believe  there  is  a  Bass  in  your  old 
mud  hole.  I  don't  care  anything  about  catch- 
ing those  little  perch,  I  want  a  Bass." 

"Sour  grapes"  ejaculates  Les,  "you  have 
had  on  fourteen  different  hooks  in  tke  last 
hour,  do  you  expect  to  catch  Bass  with  a 
minnow  hook?"  Here  he  stopped  to  pull  in 
a  nice  white  perch.  "Now  you  ask  Ike  and 
he  will  catch  a  Bass  for  you." 

"Ike,  catch  a  Bass!  Nit,  he  could  not 
catch  cold,"  said  Fred. 

"Betcher  I  could"  said  Ike.  "But  you 
would  take  it  back  to  the  office  and  tell  the 
boys  you  caught  it. 

"Oh!  come  off,  Ike,  fish  in  the  cracker 
bag  and  catch  your  dinner.  Why  you 
haven't  caught  a  fish  today." 

"Well  you  have"  says  Ike,  "you've  caught 
three  sun-fish,  a  dozen  oi  them  would  come 


FLY   FISHING   FOR   WHITE   PERCH.          23 

within  an  ounce  of  weighing.  Say  did  you 
ever  catch  a  fish  with  that  flip-flap  contri- 
vance of  yours  ?"  Betcher  never  caught  any- 
thing but  a  horn  pout  in  your  life.  Own  up 
now,  you  brag  on  your  old  trout  rod,  did 
you  ever  catch  a  trout  ?" 

"Course  I  have,  I  caught  one  that 
weighed  a  pound  last  Memorial  Day  out  of 
the  old  pork  barrel  pool  up  in  Ashburnham. 
You  see  I  dropped  the  fly " 

"Let  up,  Fred,  let  up.  You  have  got 
sins  enough  without  telling  fish  stories." 

"Well,  I  can  prove  it  by  Charlie  Bailey." 

"Well,  Bailey  is  good  evidence,  for  he's 
fairly  honest  for  a  fisherman,  but  I  will  wait 
till  he  tells  me  so,"  said  Ike. 

Just  then  Ike's  old  birch  pole  gave  a  dip 
and  away  went  the  line,  and  out  of  water 
went  a  Bass,  but  he  was  fast  hooked,  and 
soon  tired,  and  Les  slipped  the  landing  net 
under  him  and  laid  him  in  the  bottom  of 
the  canoe. 

"There  Fred,"  said  Ike,  "I'll  give  him 
to  you ;  take  him  back  to  Boston,  and  tell 
your  own  story  about  him." 

"Well  I'll  be  jigged"  says  Fred,  "  caught 


24  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

a  Bass  on  that  old  birch  pole,  a  fool  for  luck  ; " 
and  Ike  grinned. 

"Now  you  boys  have  got  done  quarrel- 
ing," said  Les,  "lets  go  over  to  the  shore 
and  catch  a  mess  of  white  perch  on  the  fly ; 
they  come  up  just  at  dusk  to  feed  on  the 
white  millers  that  come  off  the  shore  at  that 
time." 

"  What  yer  givin  us  ?"  says  Ike.  "White 
perch  won't  rise  to  the  fly,  you  want  to  find 
a  rocky  bottom,  and  use  pond  minnows  or 
shrimp  for  bait.  Betcher  fifty  dollars  you 
never  caught  a  white  perch  in  shallow  water 
in  your  life.  Come  off. 

"  Now  old  man"  says  Les,  "  don't  get  rat- 
tey.  Come  over  to  the  shanty,  get  my  other 
rod,  fling  that  old  tree-trunk  overboard,  and 
fish  like  a  gentleman." 

"Never  caught  a  fish  on  a  fly  in  my  life," 
Ike  replied.  "Its  taking  an  unfair  advan- 
tage of  them,  as  Rowland  Robinson  says. 
Think  of  getting  a  mouthful  of  feathers  when 
you  expect  a  nice  miller.  Give  the  fishes  a 
show,  if  they  can  steal  your  bait  they  get 
something  to  eat,  and  if  they  don't,  they  get 
caught ;  either  way  they  get  something.  Say 
boys,  did  yer  ever  read  any  of  Robinson's 


FLY    FISHING    FOR    WHITE    PERCH.          25 

books.  That  chap  knows  what  he  is  writing 
about.  You  can  hear  the  leaves  rustle,  and 
the  birds  sing,  when  you  read  what  he  writes. 
And  they  say  he  is  blind  now. 

"My,  my,  my!  but  it  must  be  cruel  for 
a  chap  like  him,  to  love  the  woods  and  fields 
and  know  how  pretty  the  trees  look  in  the 
spring,  and  to  smell  the  wild  violets  and  hear 
the  fish  jump  and  the  birds  sing,  and  know 
that  he  can't  never  see  'em  any  more.  But  if  I 
could  see  him  I  think  I  could  make  him  hap- 
pier, by  telling  him  how  he  has  helped  his  fel- 
low-men, who  love  these  things,  and  can't  get 
out  to  see  them,  by  putting  down  on  paper  just 
how  they  all  are  in  words  that  sound  like  the 
jingle  of  the  brooks.  I  would'nt  be  blind, 
but  I  would  give  a  good  deal  to  feel  that  I 
had  his  gifts.  They  say  the  next  best  thing 
to  going  fishing,  is  to  read  about  it.  But  how 
about  that  perch  fishing?  Are  you  dead 
open  on  that  yarn,  Les?" 

"Sure,  Ike,  sure,  come  over  and  try  it, 
and  you  will  never  insult  another  Bass,  by 
catching  him  on  a  fence  rail." 

"Well,  if  Fred  will  lend  me  a  couple,  out 
of  that  three  or  four  hundred  feather  con- 
traptions he  carries  round  in  his  pocket  to 


26  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

make  folks  think  he  is  a  fisherman,  I  don't 
mind.  Come  on.  Betcher  he  don't  get  a 
bite,  unless  its  skeeters." 


A  little  later,  and  the  three  emerge  from 
the  shanty,  and  Ike  has  a  rod,  not  a  crooked, 
top-heavy  birch  tree,  but  an  eight-ounce 
lancewood  with  reel  and  silk  line,  which  he 
handles  as  if  it  were  made  of  glass. 

"By  jing,"  he  ejaculates,  "if  I  ever  get  a 
fish  on  that  bulrush,  I  shall  bust  it  as  sure  as 
guns." 

' '  Well  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your- 
self if  you  do,  for  I  saw  a  four  pound  Bass 
landed  with  it,  and  he  fought  every  inch  of 
the  line,"  says  Les.  "  Now  don't  get  rattled 
and  thrash  around  as  if  you  were  driving 
pigs  with  a  hickory  goad.  That  rod  will  lay 
a  fly  on  the  water  just  as  lightly  as  a  feather 
would  drop,  and  you  can  do  it,  too." 

" All  right,  old  man,"  replied  Ike,  "but 
just  put  Fred  where  I  can't  see  him,  for  I 
shall  bust  the  blasted  thing  over  his  head  if 
he  gets  in  the  way.  Come  on  with  your 
fishes." 


FLY    FISHING   FOR   WHITE    PERCH.  27 

Les  sits  in  the  middle  to  handle  the  oars, 
Fred  in  the  bows,  and  Ike  in  the  stern,  with 
instructions  to  keep  their  lines  far  apart,  and 
the  boat  is  laid  up  just  outside  the  lily-pads 
which  border  the  shore. 

"  Now  Ike,"  explains  Les,  "  pull  off  about 
fifteen  feet  of  line  and  throw  it  out  on  the 
water,  and  then  lift  the  rod  over  your  head 
and  throw  the  fly  right  off  in  front  of  you, 
just  as  if  you  were  going  to  snap  a  whip, 
but  do  it  easy,  and  pull  off  a  few  feet  from 
the  reel  every  time  it  goes  out  till  you  have 
all  you  can  handle,  but  don't  snap  off  the  fly 
by  being  too  quick  about  it." 

Ike  soon  gets  the  hang  of  the  motion  and 
Les  slowly  puts  the  boat  along  with  easy 
strokes  and  frequent  pauses,  until  a  smoth- 
ered ejaculation  of  ' '  First  fish "  from  Fred 
attracts  their  attention  and  he  is  observed  to 
be  reeling  in  a  fish  which  seems  to  pull 
pretty  hard,  and  he  lifts  out  a  sun  fish,  which 
is  greeted  with  roars  of  laughter  from  the 
other  two,  and  smothered  ejaculations  from 
Fred. 

"There  Les,"  says  Ike,  "  I  told  you  Fred 
couldn't  catch  anything  but  roaches.  He  is 


28  LAKE,   FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

no  good,  let  him  walk  ashore  and  take  a 
nap." 

Just  then  Ike  who  has  let  his  fly  drift  for 
a  moment,  is  disturbed  by  a  click  of  his  reel 
which  begins  to  run  before  his  awkward  fing- 
ers catch  the  spool,  and  he  yanks  a  little 
perch  into  the  boat. 

"Hold  on!  hold  on!"  says  Les,  "don't 
yank  'em  so.  If  that  had  been  a  good  fish 
you  would  have  broken  the  tip.  You  make 
me  think  of  a  chap  that  came  down  here 
with  Bates  this  summer  and  camped  over  on 
the  little  island.  You  remember  him,  Fred, 
you  were  with  Bates  while  he  was  here.  I 
mean  Dr.  Brett.  Well,  Bates  took  him  over 
to  Boot  Pond  to  fish,  because  this  pond  was 
"working"  and  the  fish  would  not  bite. 
They  came  down  in  style,  had  a  team  with 
them,  and  Bates'  light  canoe.  They  would 
put  the  boat  in  the  wagon  and  drive  all  over 
the  country,  fishing  where  they  wanted  to. 
I  went  with  them  several  times.  Brett  was  a 
mighty  good  fellow  to  be  out  with,  lots  of  fun 
in  him,  and  took  things  as  they  came.  Well 
Bates  told  me  they  were  fishing  way  up  in 
the  toe  of  the  Boot,  and  the  perch  were  bit- 
ing so  fast  that  the  bait  was  gobbled  before 


FLY   FISHING   FOR   WHITE    PERCH.          29 

it  was  down  long  enough  for  Bass  to  see  it, 
and  Doc.  was  twitching  them.  He  had  good 
tackle,  a  fine  reel,  and  a  pretty  fair  split 
bamboo  rod,  for  they  came  for  Bass,  and 
Bates  believes  in  giving  the  fish  a  show,  and 
getting  all  the  fun  he  can  out  of  it.  Says  the 
fish  bite  too  fast  to  give  him  what  fun  he  wants 
without  wasting  them.  Well  the  first  thing 
Doc.  knew,  he  stiflpoled  a  little  Bass  right 
into  the  canoe." 

"' See  here  Doc.,' Bates  says,  'I  thought 
you  came  down  here  to  give  the  Bass  a  try, 
and  you  don't  give  them  a  chance  to  try.  I 
have  my  opinion  of  a  man  who  would  lose 
a  hundred  dollars  worth  of  practice,  spend 
twenty-five  more  for  canned  chicken  and 
other  grub  that  no  sensible  man  ought  to 
expect  in  camp,  and  the  first  Bass  he  gets  he 
stiffpoles  him  into  the  boat ;  you  ought  to 
have  a  dose  of  your  own  medicine.'  And 
Bates  never  lets  him  forget  it  either,  for  he 
socks  it  into  him  every  time  he  meets  him, 
and  the  only  reply  the  doctor  makes  is,  'I 
believe  in  getting  there,  whether  its  fishing 
or  physicking,  and  don't  mind  which  method 
I  practise  either.' 


30  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

"And  what  does  that  impudent  Bates  do, 
but  throw  in  right  where  Doc.  hooked  the 
Bass  and  catches  on  to  a  big  pickerel  that 
weighed  3£  pounds  and  landed  him  with  a 
No.  3  hook  tied  on  single  gut.  Ginger  blue  ! 
I  would  give  a  quarter  to  have  been  there 
and  seen  the  fun.  There  is  more  fun  in 
catching  one  good  fish,  with  light  tackle  like 
that,  than  there  is  in  yanking  out  a  ton  with 
an  old  birch  tree.  Then  he  tells  the  doctor 
he  did  it  to  show  him  how." 

While  the  story  was  being  told  and  the 
laugh  going  round,  the  flies  were  out  again, 
and  soon  Ike  had  another  strike  from  a  big 
white  perch,  struck  him  right,  played  him  in 
good  style  and  brought  him  into  the  boat  in 
good  shape.  This  was  several  times  repeated, 
but  poor  Fred  never  caught  another  fish,  and 
Ike  broke  out  with. 

"  Say  Les.,  I  told  you  Fred  would  get  no 
bites  but '  skeeter  bites,'  see  him  whack  'em." 

"Confound  the  blasted  mosquitos,"  says 
Fred,  "I  can  stand  it  not  to  catch  any  fish — 

"Yes,  you're  used  to  that,"  says  Ike. — 

"  Shut  up,  I've  got  the  floor,"  retorts  Fred, 
"  but  hanged  if  I  want  to  be  chewed  up  by 


FLY   FISHING   FOR   WHITE    PERCH.          31 

mosquitoes.  Talking  about  Bates,  he  is  a 
pretty  good  sort  of  a  fellow,  but  he  roasts  me 
worse  than  Ike  does  ;  every  time  I  get  a  let- 
ter from  him  he  socks  it  to  me  with  his  boot- 
heels  and  I  expect  any  time  to  have  him  mop 
the  floor  with  me." 

But  the  dark  had  come,  and  the  fish  had 
stopped  biting,  and  the  boat  was  pulled  out 
in  the  open  waters  of  the  lake,  away  from 
the  hordes  of  hungry  insects  which  flew  about 
next  the  shores.  Here  the  three  friends 
lounged  away  the  hours  before  bed-time  in 
gentle  converse  best  relished  by  fishermen. 

As  they  pulled  upon  shore,  Les  says. 
"Now  Ike,  what  do  you  say  to  white  perch 
fishing  with  a  fly  ? "  "  Well  Les,"  he  replied 
"when  I  want  fun  I  shall  use  a  fly,  but  when 
Fred  David  comes  to  see  me  and  I  have  to 
feed  him,  I  shall  stick  to  the  fattest  minnows 
I  can  get.  Its  quicker.  But  you  bet  I  have 
a  rod  just  like  this,  as  soon  as  I  get  to  the 
city." 

The  next  time  Ike  went  to  the  village,  he 
found  a  package  at  the  express  office,  which 
contained  a  nice  rod,  sent  him  by  his  friend 
Fred,  who  knew  that  Ike's  jokes  on  him 


32  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

were  friendly  pats,  and  hence  laid  up  no  ill 
feeling. 


Why  do  I  spell  Bass,  with  a  capital  letter?  Because 
he  is  the  king  of  fish  and  kings  always  have  their 
names  capitalized. — THE  AUTHOR. 


GOOSE  SHOOTING 
AT  PLYMOUTH. 


GOOSE  SHOOTING  AT  PLYMOUTH. 


HEN  I  was  a  boy — how  long  that 
seems,  and  it  is  not  many  years 
ago,  yet  what  changes  have  been 
made  since  then — when  I  was  a  boy,  I  lived 
on  a  hill,  a  portion  of  a  ridge,  which  divided 
the  shores  of  Massachusetts  Bay  from  a 
string  of  inland  ponds,  and  it  was  a  usual 
sight  late  in  the  fall  to  see  flocks  of  geese 
flying  over  from  the  turbulent  waters  of  the 
bay  to  the  quiet  haven  of  the  fresh  waters, 
and  often  within  gunshot. 

The  first  "honk"  of  the  leader  of  the  V-- 
shaped skein  brought  the  farmer  from  his 
barn,  and  the  shoemaker  from  his  last.  The 
old  gun,  loaded  with  buck  shot,  had  long 
been  standing  behind  the  door  or  hung  upon 
the  wall,  ready  for  just  such  an  occasion,  and 
the  progress  of  the  flock  could  be  noted  by 
the  fusilade  which  often  followed  it  across 
the  town.  Sometimes  after  a  shot,  one  was 
observed  to  throw  up  his  wings  and  fall  in  a 


36  LAKE,    FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

confused  mass  to  the  earth ;  or  leave  his 
place  in  the  procession,  and  lag  behind,  till 
with  failing  wing,  he  would  glide  toward 
the  ground  where  he  would  soon  be  marked 
down  in  some  field,  or  drop  into  the  waters 
of  a  flooded  meadow  which  bordered  the 
river.  In  either  case  he  was  generally  a 
"  gone  goose,"  for  a  raft  or  boat  was  usually 
hidden  somewhere  in  the  bushes  along  the 
shore,  and  it  was  not  long  before  he  received 
his  "coup  de  grace,"  perhaps  at  the  hands  of 
some  farmer  lad  with  an  old  musket,  a  relic 
of  the  Civil  War,  then  not  long  ended. 

Even  when  the  persecuted  birds  reached 
the  ponds  their  trials  were  not  over,  for  the 
shores  of  this  retreat,  which  they  sought  for 
a  rest  from  the  buffetting  waves,  and  to 
quench  their  thirst,  were  lined  with  "  stands" 
behind  which  were  more  guns,  and  in  front 
added  dangers,  in  the  shape  of  wooden  and 
live  decoys,  alluring  devices  to  attract  them 
within  gun  shot. 

1  used  to  think  that  the  live  decoys  seemed 
to  be  like  some  people  I  knew,  anxious  to 
get  their  mates  into  trouble,  at  least  they 
would  honk  and  flutter  their  wings  and  swim 


GOOSE  SHOOTING  AT  PLYMOUTH.    37 

back  and  forth  to  wile  their  wild  relatives 
nearer  to  the  masked  batteries. 

But  that  day  is  gone,  and  now  they  fly 
along  the  shore,  or  the  few  flocks  that  pass 
over,  fly  far  beyond  gunshot  on  their  way  to 
more  distant  ponds,  for  the  places  that  knew 
them  once,  know  them  no  more,  and  the 
blinds,  cunningly  hidden  by  interwoven  pine 
and  cedar  branches,  are  replaced  by  the 
noisy  puff  of  escaping  steam,  and  the  more 
subdued  thud  of  the  mighty  pumps,  which 
send  the  water  through  miles  of  pipe  to 
thirsty  bipeds  of  another  genus  in  the  towns 
which  lie  in  the  valleys  below. 

During  the  late  autumn  days  which  I 
passed  in  my  tent  on  the  shores  of  one  of 
the  largest  of  the  numerous  lakes  which 
fleck  the  bosom  of  Plymouth  with  silvery 
dots,  I  seemed  to  live  over  again  the  days 
of  old,  when  I  lay  in  the  blind,  and  eagerly 
watched  the  curious  flock  which  swept  to 
and  fro,  now  approaching  a  little,  as  if  to 
gratify  an  insatiable  curiosity,  and  anon  re- 
ceding, as  the  instinctive  cautiousness  of  the 
bird  caused  it  to  flee  from  the  merest  sem- 
blance of  danger. 


38  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

By  the  kindness  of  Mr.  C.  C.  Wood,  the 
manager  of  the  Plymouth  Rock  Trout  Hatch- 
ery, I  was  enabled  to  choose  my  ground  to 
pitch  my  tent  wherever  I  would,  on  the  long 
easterly  shore  of  Billington  Sea,  where  he 
and  his  brother,  the  genial  Deputy  Collector 
of  Customs  of  this  old  seaport,  control  many 
acres  of  woods,  protecting  the  entire  side 
of  the  pond. 

My  tent  was  pitched  on  the  side  of  a  hill, 
in  the  midst  of  the  woods,  protected  on 
three  sides  from  the  winds  and  storms,  and 
with  a  view  toward  the  west,  which  com- 
manded the  whole  expanse  of  the  lake,  and 
stretching  away  to  the  crest  of  the  wooded 
hills  which  divide  this  town  from  those  to 
the  west. 

Just  to  my  right  was  a  long  point  forming 
one  side  of  a  little  bay,  on  the  extremity  of 
which  was  a  long  row  of  plain  board  fencing, 
which  in  the  season  is  covered  with  boughs 
of  evergreen  trees,  and  which,  when  ap- 
proached from  the  water-side,  effectually 
masked  everything  behind  it  from  view. 

My  companion  and  camp-mate  was  a 
young  artist,  S.  B.  Duffield  by  name,  and  I 
want  no  better  one,  and  any  camper  knows 


GOOSE    SHOOTING    AT    PLYMOUTH.          39 

that  tent  life  will  bring  out  all  the  cussedness 
in  a  man's  nature,  but  he  was  always  ready 
and  willing,  always  pleasant,  knew  how  to 
talk  and  joke,  and  a  more  rare  quality  still, 
knew  how  to  keep  his  mouth  shut,  on  occa- 
sion. 

This  point  was  a  favorite  resort  of  ours, 
and  I  miss  my  guess,  if  the  winter's  exhibi- 
tions do  not  show  portions  of  this  beautiful 
spot  immortalized  in  color  on  canvas. 

Here  we  would  paddle  in  our  canoe,  and 
lying  beneath  the  grateful  shade  of  the  over- 
hanging trees,  drink  in  the  beauties  of  the 
glorious  and  peaceful  scene  spread  out  be- 
fore us. 

Let  us  jump  along  to  the  days  when  the 
leaves  have  begun  to  fall,  and  the  lowery 
skies  and  piercing  winds  give  token  of  the 
coming  of  wintry  snows  and  cold.  The 
house  is  peopled  with  sturdy  men  clad  in 
corduroy  and  canvas,  and  the  racks  are 
filled  with  heavy  10  guage  guns,  and  the 
talk  is  of  powder  charges  and  the  merits  of 
chilled  shot  or  smokeless  powder.  Outside, 
about  the  blinds,  are  coops  of  ducks  and 
geese,  while  anchored  on  the  water  beyond 
are  groups  of  wooden  decoys.  An  easterly 


40  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

wind  has  been  blowing  heavily  for  two  days, 
and  it  has  just  shifted  to  southwest. 

Geese  do  not  fly  in  a  nasty  easterly  gale 
and  the  flocks  that  came  up  from  the  north 
just  ahead  of  it,  are  lying  outside  in  the 
salt  water,  waiting  for  a  change.  It  is  a 
pretty  sure  sign  of  bad  weather  when  a 
big  flight  of  geese  is  on,  but  those  which 
pitch  into  the  bays  will  generally  stay  there, 
until  there  is  a  change,  in  spite  of  the  buffet- 
ing they  get  from  the  turbulent  waves. 

But  when  the  change  comes,  off  they  go, 
and  it  is  then,  when  tired  and  thirsty,  they 
drop  into  the  ponds,  that  our  friends  get  in 
their  work. 

Soon  a  "honk"  is  heard  from  outside,  and 
one  or  more  of  the  gunners  go  out  and  loose 
the  "flyers"  who  circle  out  over  the  pond 
and  back  to  the  shore  in  front  of  the  blind. 
A  wild  volley  of  hoarse  cries  goes  up  from 
the  other  geese  stationed  on  the  shore,  and 
the  flying  string  of  wild  birds,  attracted  by 
the  decoys,  circles  back  and  shows  signs  of 
stopping  for  a  little  chat  with  these,  appar- 
ently, earlier  arrivals. 

But  now,  from  other  portions  of  the  pond, 
goes  up  the  call,  for  there  are  other  blinds 


GOOSE    SHOOTING   AT    PLYMOUTH.          41 

on  the  southerly  shore,  and  even  on  the 
island  that'  occupies  the  centre  of  this  sheet 
of  water. 

But  there  is  a  good  strain  of  decoy  birds 
at  Wood's  Point,  of  the  real  Canada  Goose, 
bred  up  from  wild  birds  and  domesticated 
for  generations,  and  they  get  their  share  of 
the  birds. 

"Here  they  come,"  says  the  watcher, 
"they're  down,"  and  sure  enough  the  wild 
birds  are  in  the  water,  and  headed  by  an  old 
gander,  are  slowly  swimming  in  toward  tne 
blind.  But  they  are  not  captured  yet. 
The  old  gander  has  evidently  been  there  be- 
fore, perhaps  "many  a  time,"  and  he  is  cau- 
tious. Slowly  he  swims  back  and  forth, 
sometimes  beating  back  the  too  eager  young- 
sters who  would  swim  directly  to  their  mis- 
guiding brethren  in  the  shoal  water. 

Now  is  the  critical  period,  and  woe  betide 
the  unlucky  tenderfoot,  who  in  his  eagerness 
to  watch  the  oncoming  birds,  incautiously 
allows  his  head  to  rise  a  bit  too  high  or  raps 
the  muzzle  of  his  gun  on  the  boards  of  the 
blind.  If  the  birds  are  thereby  frightened 
away,  he  is  lucky  if  he  gets  off  without  a  rap 
on  the  head  from  some  quick-tempered 


42  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

gunner,  or  ducked  in  the  chilly  water  and 
hustled  off  by  the  disappointed  crowd. 

But  we  have  no  novices  here,  the  men  are 
all  at  their  chosen  stations,  and  the  decoys 
are  sending  out  their  most  mellifluous  and 
coaxing  tones.  "  Honk-honk-o-o-onk"  cry 
the  decoys,  "come  up  here  and  get  some 
grub.  Here  is  a  nice  bed  of  duck  weed,  and 
there  are  lots  of  nice  snails  to  give  it  a  relish  : 
come  up." 

"  Honk-o-honk,"  says  the  leading  visitor. 
' '  I  don't  know  about  it.  I  don't  like  the 
looks  of  those  bushes  behind  there.  Seems 
to  me,  I  got  hurt  by  something  from  a  place 
like  that,  last  year,  and  almost  frightened  to 
death  by  the  big  noise  that  came  from  it." 

"Oh  !  don't  be  such  a  coward,  come  on  !" 
Nearer  and  nearer  draws  the  bunch  of  birds 
and  wilder  and  more  urgent  is  the  call  of  the 
decoys,  till  they  come  in  range,  when  "give 
it  to  'em,"  and  a  volley  of  fire,  smoke  and 
hurtling  lead  goes  out  from  the  portholes, 
and  then  upon  his  feet  goes  every  man,  and 
another  volley  crashes  into  the  now  fright- 
ened and  wildly  fleeing  birds,  who  are  hurry- 
ing away  at  the  top  of  their  speed. 


GOOSE    SHOOTING    AT   PLYMOUTH.  43 

The  dead  birds  are  picked  up,  the  cripples 
killed  or  captured  to  be  used  in  improving 
the  strain  of  the  flock  of  decoys,  and  the 
blind  once  more  settles  down  to  its  former 
comparative  quiet. 

But  the  day  of  goose-shooting  in  this  sec- 
tion of  the  country  is  passing  away.  In 
spite  of  protective  laws,  the  birds  are  getting 
scarcer  every  year.  The  advance  of  civiliza- 
tion is  peopling  the  shores  of  our  ponds  with 
houses,  and  the  demands  of  the  waterworks 
are  setting  up  disturbances  that  are  gradually 
driving  away  the  game  from  our  shores. 
Some  day,  we  will  be  sitting  by  the  fire,  with 
our  grandchild  on  our  knee,  telling  him  of 
sights  and  exploits,  which  he  will  never  see, 
unless  he  goes  to  those  portions  of  the 
country,  not  yet  contaminated  by  the 
accursed  hustle  for  greed  of  gain,  and  the  too 
rapidly  increasing  communistic  huddling  of 
our  people  into  manufacturing  towns,  about 
the  streams  and  lakes,  to  the  desolation  and 
desertion  of  the  farming  districts.  The 
home-loving,  law-abiding,  and  contented 
tiller  of  the  soil  who  once  laid  in  these  blinds, 
or  shot  over  the  adjacent  fields,  will  have 
given  way  to  the  gamin,  and  the  sparrow 


44  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

shooting  Italian,  and  will  gradually  lose  him- 
self in  the  crowd,  or  like  the  birds  wend  his 
way  to  more  civilized  districts,  where  the  air 
is  not  befouled  by  sewer  gas  and  factory 
stenches. 


PERCH   FISHING. 


PERCH    FISHING. 


E  was  just  a  boy,  (plain  boy,)  freckle- 
faced,  red-headed,  a  trifle  uncouth, 
but  not  by  any  means  awkward,  ex- 
cept when  he  was  in  a  strange  house. 

My  first  sight  of  him  was  as  he  sat  on  the 
stringer  of  the  bridge,  over  the  river, 
dangling  a  line  in  the  water,  and  occasionally 
pulling  up  a  bull  pout,  which  he  slung  behind 
him  on  the  planks. 

Leaning  on  the  rail  was  a  12  guage  gun 
with  a  brace  of  woodcock  hanging  on  the 
guard. 

"Changed  off  from  shooting  and  gone  to 
fishing?"  queried  I. 

"Yep,  didn't  have  much  luck  shootin', 
and  I  wanted  somethin'  for  breakfast,  so  I 
thought  I'd  ketch  a  few  horn  pouts." 

This  was  the  beginning  of  as  much  of  a 
companionship  as  will  exist  between  a  man 
of  forty  and  a  boy  of  sixteen,  and  many 


48  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

were  the  trips  we  took  that  fall  and  winter 
for  partridge,  quail  and  rabbits. 

He  was  a  veritable  vagabond,  so  far  as 
love  for  roaming  around  the  woods  was 
concerned,  and  I  soon  found  that  he  was  a 
mine  of  knowledge  of  the  manners  and  w&ys 
of  the  wearers  of  fur,  fin  and  feather. 

He  had  the  run  of  my  library  during  the 
winter,  and  while  he  passed  by  story  books 
in  disdain,  he  spent  long  hours  on  stormy 
days  over  the  volumes  relating  to  Natural 
History  and  field  sports. 

One  day  in  May  he  trotted  his  pony  up 
beside  me  as  I  was  going  home  to  tea  and 
called  out, 

"Say,  uncle  Mat,  les'  go  fishing.'  Got 
all  done  plantin',  and  its  going  to  be  showery 
tomorrer.  Les'  go  up  to  the  pond  and  ketch 
a  mess  of  perch ;  may  get  a  pick'rel.  Come 
on,  will  yer." 

"Why  Bob,"  I  said,  "we  have  no  boat, 
and  there's  no  place  at  the  pond  to  fish  off 
the  shore." 

"Got  a  boat,  all  right,  Curtis  and  Thayer 
had  my  canoe  up  there  last  week,  after 
pick'rel,  and  I  told  'em  to  leave  it  in  the 
ice  house.  Come  on.  Curtis  got  a  old  he 


PERCH    FISHING.  49 

one,  weighed  most  six  pound  ;    mebbe  we'll 
get  one.     We'll  get  some  perch  anyhow." 

"All  right,"  said  I,  "call  around  about 
daylight  and  I'll  be  ready." 

The  boy  was  on  hand,  at  daylight,  and  we 
were  soon  in  his  old  jump-seat  buggy,  with 
bait,  rods,  and  lunch  stowed  under  the  seat, 
bound  for  the  pond. 

The  fresh  morning  air,  redolent  of  blossom 
and  leaf,  was  like  a  tonic  to  his  boyish  spirits 
and  he  kept  up  a  string  of  small  talk  all  the 
way  to  where  we  were  to  leave  the  team,  in 
a  friendly  stable  not  far  from  the  shore. 

"Say,  boss,  did  you  ever  go  troutin'?" 
Bob  often  gets  irreverent,  and  calls  me  boss, 
especially  when  he  is  happy. 

"  Go  trouting,  yes  ;  why?" 

"Well,  I  went  up  to  New  Hampshire  last 
year,  up  to  Uncle  Bill's,  and  on  the  train 
were  two  dudes,  with  fancy  fish  poles,  and 
baskets  to  put  fish  in,  and  pocket-books  full 
of  hooks,  all  trimmed  up  with  feathers. 
Them  fish  poles  were  dandies  though.  So, 
when  I  got  there,  I  told  Uncle  Bill  about 
it,  and  he  said  they  were  goin'  troutin' ;  that 
they  used  them  feather  fixins  instead  of 
worms,  and  that  they  called  'em  flies.  Well, 


50  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

I  thought  if  there  was  so  much  fun  in  ketchin' 
trout  es  that,  I  must  try  it,  and  Uncle  Bill 
put  me  onto  a  good  brook,  and  I  had  fun 
alive  for  about  two  hours.  But  I  used  worms 
for  bait,  and  I  cut  a  pole  in  the  woods. 
They  were  little  things,  but  they  fought  like 
a  sucker.  Did  you  ever  see  them  flies  ?" 

"  O,  yes,  often,  and  there  is  just  as  much 
difference  in  catching  fish  with  a  fly  instead 
of  a  worm,  as  there  is  between  killing  a  bird 
on  the  wing  instead  of  sitting  still." 

"  Well,  by  gum,  I  can  get  shots  enough  at 
birds  on  the  wing,  without  potting  them, 
and  have  more  fun  out  of  it.  But  I  dunno, 
if  I  was  a  bird,  I  would  as  'lieves  be  shot 
dead  on  a  limb,  as  to  be  scairt  most  to  death 
on  the  wing.  But  'bout  them  trout,  I  got 
awful  sick  of  'em,  after  I  had  'bout  a  dozen 
messes." 

"  Well,  Bob,  to  be  honest,  I  would  rather 
have  a  nice  perch,  caught  out  of  cool,  clear 
water,  than  to  have  the  best  trout  that  I  ever 
saw.  It  is  mostly  because  it  is  the  fashion 
to  praise  the  flavor  of  the  trout,  and  to 
decry  the  value  of  other  fish  for  food,  but 
there  is  no  fish  that  swims  that  so  palls  on 


PERCH    FISHING.  51 

the  appetite  as  those  same  trout,  or  any  other 
of  the  salmon  family." 

"There  is  a  great  difference,  however,  in 
the  flavor  of  perch.  They  are  the  finest, 
when  they  are  full  of  spawn,  but  I  think  a 
man  is  pretty  mean,  who  will  catch  fish  when 
they  are  breeding.  Again  perch,  caught 
out  of  muddy  ponds  and  rivers  are  not  as 
nice  flavored  as  those  out  of  nice,  cold,  clear 
water  ;  in  fact  no  fish  is." 

"Say,"  says  Bob,  "you  know  I  borrowed 
those  pages  you  cut  out  of  Forest  and  Stream , 
last  winter,  and  read  those  stories  that  Fred 
Mather  wrote  about  the  fellers  he'd  fished 
with.  Golly,  that  chap  knows  what  he's 
talking  about.  But  I  shouldn't  think  he'd 
had  time  to  do  anything  but  go  fishing,  if 
he's  fished  with  all  those  chaps.  He's  one  of 
those  dude  fishermen,  that  want  to  break 
your  head  for  calling  his  rod  a  fish  pole  ; 
and  he  talks  about  '  coachmen,'  '  hackles'  and 
'professors'  and  calls  worms  'barn  yard 
hackles,'  but  he  can  tell  a  story  in  good  shape. 
Say  didn't  I  laugh  over  that  letter  he  wrote 
you  about  boys  killing  birds  ;  he's  a  dandy. 

"What  was  that,  Bob?     I  have  so  many 


52  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

letters  from  him  that  I  do  not  remember  the 
one  you  speak  of." 

"Hold  on,  boss,  I  cut  it  out  of  the  paper 
where  you  printed  it,  and  I  carry  it  in  my 
pocket.  Here  'tis." 

Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  Aug.  23,  1897. 
My  dear  Bates : 

I  have  yours  of  18th  in  reference  to  in- 
sectivorous birds  being  killed  as  game,  on 
account  of  the  benefit  to  agriculture  rendered 
by  them,  and  the  danger  of  their  being 
exterminated,  or  driven  from  the  settled 
portions  of  the  country.  In  my  opinion, 
nothing  will  save  our  birds  from  slaughter. 
You  may  educate  all  the  adult  sportsmen, 
gunners,  et  al.,  to  spare  certain  birds  but  you 
can't  educate  that  savage  whom  we  call  a  boy. 
Give  him  a  gun  and  he  only  wants  to  see 
something  to  kill ;  that's  what  he  is  out  for, 
and  as  for  expecting  him  to  pass  a  bird  as  big 
as  a  meadow  lark,  or  a  "  high  hole"  you  might 
as  well  save  your  breath.  It  is  boys,  boys, 
boys,  who  kill  off  the  insectivorous  birds, 
robins,  thrushes  and  others  which  are  not 
game,  and  as  a  boy  I  did  more  than  my  share 
of  it.  In  one  of  my  sketches  of  early  life, 
now  running  in  Forest  and  Stream,  I  relate 
the  killing  of  a  "yellow  bird"  at  ten  paces 
while  it  was  feeding  on  a  thistle  top,  and 
how  I  exulted  at  my  prowess  and  then 


PERCH    FISHING.  Od 

suggest  that  if  some  kind-hearted  man  had 
massaged  me  with  his  boot  it  would  have 
taught  me  that  life  should  be  taken  with  due 
care  and  judgment,  and  that  a  boy  should 
not  have  a  gun  until  he  is  90  years  old  and 
then  his  grandfather  should  advise  him  to 
go  forth  and  kill  every  living  thing  he  sees. 
That  would  protect  much  game.  Few  men 
are  fit  to  be  trusted  with  a  gun,  but  a  boy 
should  never  have  one. 

Cordially  yours, 

FRED  MATHER. 

"Yes,  Bob,  and  there  is  a  great  deal  more 
in  those  lines  than  you  see  now,  but  you  will 
understand  better  when  you  get  older.  Major 
Mather  is  best  known  as  a  fisherman  and  is 
a  noted  fish-culturist,  but  he  has  not  passed 
sixty-five  years,  without  getting  a  grasp  on 
nature,  that  few  get,  who  do  not,  as  he  does, 
pass  many  days  in  the  woods.  That  letter 
has  a  big  moral  and  it  applies  not  only  to  the 
gun  but  to  the  rod ;  and  not  only  to  trout, 
but  to  perch.  I  wish  every  man,  who  has  a 
boy,  could  read  that." 

"Yes  I  spose  so,"  replied  Bob  "and  he 
says  perch  will  bite  at  a  fly,  and  its  good  fun 
if  you  have  a  light  rod.  I  guess  that's  so, 
for  I  had  lots  more  fun  ketchin'  that  big 


54  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

pick'rel  with  your  little  pole,  that  you  lent 
me  last  fall,  than  I  used  to  with  a  big  one 
that  I  cut  in  the  woods,  but  I  dunno  what  the 
fish  think  about  it.  I  guess  I  druther  be 
yanked  out  and  have  it  over  if  I  was  a,fish." 

"Well,  Bob,  we  seldom  think  now  how 
the  fish  and  birds  feel  about  it.  But  here  we 
are  at  the  pond,  and  here  is  your  canoe. 
Now  where  shall  we  fish  ?" 

"Well,  I  guess  we'd  better  go  out  there 
off  the  point ;  there  is  some  deep  water  just 
outside  those  lily  pads,  and  there's  lots  of 
perch  there,  and  p'raps  I  can  get  a  pick'rel 
out  of  the  weeds.  Golly,  I'd  like  to  see  you 
get  a  big  pick'rel  on  that  little  pole  of  yours, 
it  don't  look  bigger'n  a  weed.  Say,  what 
are  you  goin'  to  do  with  that  other  pole  ?" 

"Well,  Bob,  that  rod  is  for  you,  but  I 
don't  want  to  hear  you  call  it  a  fish  pole,  and 
I  want  to  teach  you  not  to  '  yank'em  out ; ' 
for  I  am  going  to  take  you  with  me  some 
time,  and  let  you  catch  a  Black  Bass,  and  you 
have  got  to  learn  to  play  a  fish,  before  you 
can  land  one  of  those  fellows." 

"Now  that  rod  did  not  cost  much,  and  it 
will  break  if  you  yank  too  hard,  I  would  not 
risk  it  on  a  big  bass,  but  it  will  do  to  learn  on. 


PERCH    FISHING.  55 

Here  is  a  reel  and  a  braided  silk  line,  and 
these  hooks  are  tied  on  gut  snells.  You 
would  better  commence  to  fish  right  now,  and 
when  you  get  after  more  garney  fish,  you  will 
find  it  second  nature." 

"  Say  Uncle  Mat,  you're  a  brick.  Say, 
I'm  one  of  those  dude  fishermen  now.  Say, 
if  anybody  says  you're  not  all  right.  I — I'll 
get  him  out  in  this  canoe  and  tip  him  over." 

"Well  Bob,  see  who'll  get  the  first  perch." 

Just  off  the  shore,  where  the  water  from 
the  inlet,  came  around  on  its  way  to  the 
lower  end  of  the  pond,  we  threw  over  the 
anchor  and  dropped  our  hooks,  baited  with 
earth  worms,  and  then  laid  back  and  waited. 

Am  I  lazy?  Well  perhaps,  but  I  love 
(occasionally)  to  sit  in  the  end  of  a  boat, 
floating  in  the  still  waters,  and  watch  the 
clouds  roll  by,  the  leaves  tremble  in  the 
breeze  and  the  ripples  playing  tag  on  the 
shallows.  Every  one  seems  to  have  a  strain 
of  wild  blood  in  his  veins,  a  heritage  of  his 
primeval  ancestors ;  and  when  these  wild 
corpuscles  come  on  top,  he  is  not  contented 
till  he  hies  himself  to  the  woodland  and  plays 
lazy  till  the  fit  is  off  and  he  sighs  for  the 
hurly-burly  of  civilization. 


56  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

I  love  to  hold  the  butt  of  a  little  fly-rod 
and  cast  the  pretty  delusions  of  hook  and 
gaudy  feather,  taking  care  to  drop  the  flies 
lightly  as  the  real  insect  would  dip  his  feet 
in  the  water  and  delude  the  poor  fish  into 
thinking  that  he  has  a  toothsome  morsel 
for  his  appetite.  I  love  to  feel  the  thrill, 
that  telegraphs  itself  along  the  braided  line 
and  limber  rod  to  the  hand,  when  the  trout 
or  bass  seizes  the  line  and  darts  off  with  his 
prey  only  to  find  himself  a  victim  of  mis- 
placed confidence  and  fastened  to  a  bending, 
springing  rod  which  with  every  jerk,  forces 
the  cruel  barb  deeper  into  his  jaw.  I  love  to 
see  the  lordly  bass  leap  from  the  water  and 
shake  the  line,  fastened  to  his  lip,  with  a  grim 
exhibition  of  anger,  which  culminates  in  the 
wild  rush  for  liberty,  only  to  finally  lay  his 
form  in  the  landing  net,  while  the  wild  blood 
rushes  through  my  veins  in  the  cruel  exulta- 
tion of  mastery  by  skill  and  science  over  the 
wilder  animal  before  me  and  I  often  wish, 
after  his  form  lies  in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe, 
that  he  was  back  in  the  water  in  the  glory  of 
health  and  activity. 

But  I  also  love  to  lie  quietly  in  the  seat 
and  watch  the  bobbing  float  and  almost  wish 


PERCH    FISHING.  07 

that  the  fish  had  not  pulled  it  under  to  dis- 
turb my  reveries  in  the  calm  still  surround- 
ings of  water  and  wood.  Am  [  lazy?  Well 
I  guess  so.  But  there  are  others. 

Bob  interrupted  my  soliloquy,  with  a  good 
fat  perch,  which  he  took  in  over  the  side  and 
then  plunged  into  the  fish  bag  which  hung  in 
the  water. 

"  Say,  it's  lots  more  fun  to  ketch  fish  with 
this  rod  than  it  is  with  a  birch  pole.  Golly, 
how  that  perch  pulled.  When  do  these  fel- 
lows spawn?" 

"They  lay  their  eggs  in  the  spring,  about 
the  time  the  herring  run.  The  time  varies 
with  the  locality,  say  from  April  to  May, 
when  the  temperature  of  the  water  gets  to 
about  50  to  55  degrees.  Did  you  never  see 
the  strings  of  eggs  hanging  on  the  bushes 
when  the  water  fell  after  the  spring 
freshet?" 

"Well,"  says  Bob,  "I  have  seen  them,  but 
I  never  knew  what  they  were  before.  I 
pulled  a  lot  off  the  button  bushes  last 
spring  and  dropped  them  in  the  water  'cause 
I  thought  they  were  fish  eggs  and  it  was  a 
pity  to  have  them  dry  up." 

Just  then  the  fish  commenced  to  bite  and 


58  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

the  steady  stream  of  fish  coming  in  over  the 
side  interrupted  the  conversation,  till  with  a 
sigh,  Bob  broke  out  with  : 

"Well,  I  spose  we  better  quit,  we  have  all 
we  can  use,  and  I  think  it  is  mighty  hoggish 
to  ketch  fish  to  throw  them  away.  I  have 
seen  fellers  pull  in  a  big  lot  of  fish,  over  a 
hundred,  and  tell  what  a  lot  they  got,  and 
then  throw  them  into  the  hen  yard,  or  leave 
them  on  the  shore.  That's  what  your  friend 
George  Shields  calls  a  *  fish  hog.'  Say,  he 
don't  do  a  thing  to  them  fish  hogs,  in  that 
book  of  his." 

"Which  book,  Bob?  He  has  written  a 
good  many." 

"0  that  magazine  you  have  every  month. 
'Recreation,'  he  calls  it.  He  everlastingly 
soaks  it  to  the  chaps  what  pulls  in  more  fish 
than  he  thinks  is  their  share.  But  we  might 
as  well  go  home  now." 

"Yes,  Bob,  you  see  the  best  men  in  the 
country  are  trying  to  keep  up  the  supply  of 
game  and  restock  old  depleted  streams  and 
covers.  Now  see  that  you  do  not  help  to 
undo  their  work." 

And  one  more  pleasant  day  was  marked 
with  a  white  stone  on  life's  calendar. 


A  TALE  OF 
WINNEPESAUKEE. 


A  TALE  OF  W1NNEPESAUKEE. 


was  a  warm  summer  night.  The  mist 
hung  heavy  over  the  lake,  and  the 
clouds  drooped  low  over  the  mountain 
tops.  All  nature  seemed  steeped  in  a  rest- 
less heavy  fog.  Sleep  was  banished  from  my 
eyes  as  I  tossed  on  the  clammy  sheets. 

Despairing  of  repose,  I  left  my  room  and 
wandered  along  the  shore,  and  finally  threw 
myself  on  a  bed  of  fragrant  leaves,  beneath 
the  boughs  of  a  wide  spreading  pine.  The 
flash  of  distant  lightning  lit  the  horizon,  and 
the  growling  of  far  off  thunder  disturbed  the 
stillness  of  the  air.  Anon  the  lapping  of  the 
restless  waters  of  the  lake,  broke  upon  the 
ear,  and  the  hoarse  cry  of  the  night  bird 
grated  through  the  trees. 

The  very  loneliness  of  the  scene  was  op- 
pressive, and  I  lay  with  pent  up  breath, 
striving  to  quell  the  very  beating  of  my  heart 
which  throbbed  in  hurried  strokes. 


62  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

Like  the  twittering  of  distant  birds,  dis- 
turbed by  a  loathsome  serpent,  caine  the 
mtirmurings  of  a  voice,  growing  stronger  and 
more  distinct,  till  I  could  hear  a  voice  which 
seemed  to  say  :  ' '  Shall  I  tell  you  a  story  of 
the  early  days,  when  these  hills  were  spotted 
with  a  crimson  stain,  and  the  waters  ran  red 
with  blood?  Then  listen  to  the  tale  of  one 
who  once  cleft  these  waters  with  restless 
paddle,  and  roamed  these  shores  with  spear 
and  bow. " 

AND   THUS    HE    SPOKE  : 

The  afternoon  of  a  beautiful  October  day 
was  drawing  to  a  close ;  the  sun  was  already 
sinking  behind  the  mountain-tops  and  the 
shadows  were  slowly  creeping  up  the  slopes 
of  Ossipee.  The  lake,  always  beautiful,  was 
taking  on  those  delicate  darkening  tints  as 
the  shadows  of  the  forest  are  thrown  upon  it 
and  with  every  moment  it  grew  more  and 
more  beautiful  as  the  shadows  deepened. 

On  the  southern  shore,  at  the  head  of  a 
little  bay  which  indented  the  border,  em- 
bosomed on  the  sides  by  the  forest  which 
stretched  away  in  miles  of  trackless  wilder- 
ness, was  a  cluster  of  Indian  wigwams,  the 


A    TALE    OF    WINNEPESAUKEE.  63 

home  of  a  band  of  the  Winnepesaukees. 
Among  their  tents  was  one  distinguished  from 
the  others  by  its  superior  size,  the  emblems 
of  authority  painted  upon  its  curtains,  and 
inside,  by  the  mass  of  beautiful  skins  which 
covered  the  earth. 

It  was  the  home  of  the  old  chief,  and  he 
was  now  slowly  passing  from  earth  to  the 
Happy  Land  of  the  Beyond.  His  massive 
frame,  only  a  wreck  of  its  former  self, 
stretched  upon  the  bear  skins,  the  hickory 
bow,  six  feet  in  length  and  of  a  size  calcu- 
lated to  withstand  the  efforts  of  anything  but 
a  giant  to  draw  its  arrow  to  the  head,  told  a 
story  of  the  prowess  of  the  owner.  By  his 
side,  with  her  face  buried  in  her  hands  and 
her  hair  dishevelled,  crouched  a  young  girl ; 
and  without  the  curtain  stood  a  youth  six 
feet  four  inches  tall  and  a  perfect  athlete  in 
form  and  figure,  gazing  off  over  the  bosom  of 
the  lake  before  him.  At  a  word  from  the 
girl  the  young  man  entered  and  stood  by 
them.  The  old  Chief,  with  the  damp  of  death 
already  upon  his  brow,  lifted  his  mighty  form 
upon  his  elbow  and  spoke, — 

"My  son,  the  race  of  the  chief  of  the  Win- 
nepesaukees is  nearly  run.  No  more  will  he 


64  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

breast  the  side  of  the  mountain  in  chase  of 
the  deer  or  climb  through  yonder  ravines  to 
lay  the  skin  of  the  bear  upon  his  bed.  The 
sun  is  setting  and  when  it  disappears  behind 
the  top  of  the  mountains  the  spirit  of  Win- 
netonka  will  join  his  friends  upon  the  other 
side.  But  just  now  the  spirits  of  my  fore- 
fathers came  to  me  as  in  the  days  of  my 
youth  and  they  bring  sad  tidings  of  our  tribe. 
But  a  short  time  will  you  rule  over  them,  for 
the  invader  will  close  in  about  you  and  the 
remnant  of  your  people  will  be  forced  to 
seek  another  home.  You  and  you  only  can 
bend  the  bow  and  wield  the  axe  of  your 
Father  and  Chief.  Many  times  have  they 
been  used  in  mortal  combat ;  but  they  have 
never  been  dishonored.  Promise  me  that 
you  will  bear  them  with  honor  and  that  you 
will  repel  the  foot  of  the  enemy  as  long  as 
a  drop  of  blood  runs  in  your  veins.  Even 
now  they  appear  and  you  will  soon  be  called. 
Away  !  and  meet  them  face  to  face  !"  He 
fell  back  and  all  was  over. 

A  few  miles  away,  down  the  lake,  a  war 
party  of  Mohawks  were  approaching,  headed 
by  their  chief,  who,  accompanied  by  his  son, 
was  looking  for  the  beautiful  lake  of  which 


A    TALE    OF    WINNEPESAUKEE.  65 

he  had  so  often  heard.  They  broke  through 
the  bushes  at  the  edge  of  the  forest  and 
stood  upon  the  shore.  The  last  expiring 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  were  gilding  the 
mountain  tops,  and,  as  he  gazed  upon  the 
scene  before  him  he  said: — "Beautiful  in- 
deed ! " 

Yes,  beautiful ;  even  to  the  eyes  of  the 
savage  who  was  so  soon  to  color  the  water 
with  the  crimson  stain  of  human  blood. 

The  next  day  the  two  tribes  met  in 
deadly  conflict  and  the  stalwart  form  of  the 
young  Wiunepesaukee,  toweling  above  his 
warriors,  was  picked  out  by  the  Mohawk 
chief  as  a  foe  worthy  of  his  prowess  ;  but  he 
had  met  his  fate ;  that  night  his  body  lay  in 
the  water  of  the  lake  levelled  by  the  axe  of 
the  young  chief. 

Thus  were  two  young  men,  both  in  the 
prime  of  youth,  and  both  models  of  physi- 
cal strength  and  suppleness  left  to  combat 
each  other.  Each  seeking  the  other,  the 
one  to  revenge  the  death  of  his  father,  the 
other  to  destroy  the  invader  of  his  home ; 
but  they  were  kept  apart  until  the  natives 
of  the  soil  were  nearly  exterminated.  At 
last,  in  the  heat  of  the  fight  they  met,  and 


66  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

despite  the  prowess  of  his  antagonist  the 
Mohawk  was  the  victor,  and  the  young  chief 
left  upon  the  ground  for  dead. 

The  faithful  sister,  who  had  clung  to  him 
through  all  misfortune,  sought  him  out  and 
found  him  just  in  time  to  hear  his  last 
words  : — 

"The  son  of  Winnetonka  has  kept  his 
promise.  The  bow  of  his  Father  is  broken 
and  the  Winnepesaukee  will  seek  a  home 
among  the  tribes  of  the  North.  Promise  me, 
my  sister,  the  last  of  my  race,  that  you  will 
revenge  my  death  if  ever  the  opportunity  is 
afforded ;"  and  as  she  promised,  his  spirit 
passed  to  its  long  home. 

Several  years  passed  on  ;  the  maiden,  who 
had  been  captured  by  the  Mohawks,  and 
adopted  as  one  of  the  tribe,  had  grown  to  a 
beautiful  woman.  One  day  as  she  was  cross- 
ing the  lake  in  a  canoe  a  squall  arose  and 
her  strength  proving  insufficient  to  withstand 
the  power  of  the  gale,  the  craft  upset  and  she 
was  thrown  into  the  surging  water.  But  not 
thus  was  the  race  of  the  Winnepesaukees  to 
disappear  from  the  land.  The  young  chief, 
who  had  often  admired  the  girl,  was  fishing 
within  the  cove  and  saw  the  accident.  His 


A    TALE    OF    WINNEPESAUKEE.  67 

arm  was  strong  enough  to  encounter  the 
blast  and  she  soon  lay  in  the  bottom  of  his 
canoe  which  was  being  driven  toward  an 
island  near  at  hand. 

After  reaching  the  shore,  the  young  chief 
stood  near  with  folded  arms,  gazing  at  the 

7      O  ~ 

beautiful  girl  whom  he  had  just  rescued  from 
the  hungry  water  which  seemed  now  lashing 
itself  into  a  fury  at  the  loss  of  its  victim. 

Many  times  had  he  gazed  upon  her  form 
as  she  mingled  with  the  other  maidens  of  his 
tribe,  among  whom  she  was  conspicuous 
from  her  pleasing  face  and  willowy  grace. 
This  attention  had  not  been  unnoticed  by  the 
young  girl  and  she  was  in  a  measure  pre- 
pared for  the  words  which  at  last  fell  from 
his  lips, — 

"The  sapling  rising  from  the  soil  in  the 
midst  of  the  forest,  longs  for  the  light  of  the 
sun,  and  as  it  grows  older  and  more  thrifty 
it  towers  and  climbs  until  it  is  warmed  by 
the  welcome  rays,  when  it  takes  on  a  new 
life  and  its  leaves  grow  fresher  by  the  con- 
tact ;  so  has  Lone  Wolf  longed  for  the  sunny 
face  of  one  who  would  be  his  companion. 
His  wigwam  is  empty  and  he  waits  for  a 
maiden  to  cheer  its  gloomy  interior,  brighten 


68  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

the  firelight  and  make  a  happy  home-coming 
for  its  owner.  Will  '  The  West  Wind '  share 
my  lot?" 

The  maiden  stood  irresolute  for  a  moment 
for  she  was  obliged  to  confess  herself  not 
indifferent  to  the  regard  of  the  young  chief. 
His  kindness  to  his  people ;  his  just  and 
honorable  dealings  with  all  who  came  before 
him  ;  his  acknowledged  prowess  in  the  chase 
and  in  the  battle  and  his  manly  form  and 
beauty  had  rendered  him  a  hero  in  the  eyes 
of  the  maidens  of  his  tribe,  any  of  whom 
would  have  felt  flattered  if  these  words  had 
been  addressed  to  them.  But  the  mind  of 
the  girl  was  torn  between  the  remembrance 
that  the  slayer  of  her  brother  and  the  con- 
queror of  her  people  stood  before  her,  and 
the  regard  and  admiration  in  which  she  held 
him.  At  last  she  spoke, — 

"Lone  Wolf  is  the  chief  of  his  tribe,  and 
he  can  command  whatsoever  he  chooses  of 
the  members  thereof.  The  West  Wind 
is  the  daughter  of  the  Winnepesaukees  and 
only  one  of  his  band  by  the  sufferance  of  her 
good  adopted  mother.  Her  brother  died  at 
her  feet  slain  by  the  hand  of  the  man  who 
now  seeks  to  make  her  his  wife.  Before  he 


A   TALE    OF    WINNEPESAUKEE.  69 

died  he  made  her  promise  that  she  would 
revenge  his  death.  Does  Lone  Wolf  sup- 
pose that  she  has  forgotten?" 

' '  I  did  not  know  that  the  West  Wind  was 
the  daughter  of  Winnetonka,"  said  he,  "but 
I  cannot  see  that  this  fact  should  stand 
between  us.  Your  brother  was  a  brave  man 
and  an  honorable  enemy.  He  was  the  slayer 
of  my  father.  He  was  my  opponent  on  the 
field  of  battle.  We  met ;  he  was  vanquished. 
It  was  his  fate  or  it  would  not  have  been.  I 
did  seek  for  him  and  he  for  me  and  when  we 
met  I  felt  that  I  had  met  a  man. 

I  did  seek  to  avenge  a  father's  death  ;  but 
the  spirit  of  my  father  has  spoken  with  me 
and  told  me  that  vengeance  is  wrong.  I  do 
not  understand ;  but  my  father  was  a  wise 
man.  He  told  me  to  cease  war  and  unite 
all  the  Indians  under  one  tribe  ;  but  I  did 
not  know  that  it  was  by  uniting  with  another 
tribe.  I  see  that  it  is  well. 

Our  tribes  have  been  enemies,  let  us  join 
them  by  being  united  ;  bury  all  ill  feelings 
beneath  a  dead  past.  The  lazy  black  bird 
lays  its  eggs  in  the  nest  of  the  little  yellow 
bird  and  when  hatched  the  interloper  pushes 
out  the  young  of  the  true  owners. 


70  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

Do  they  then  destroy  him  ?  No  !  They 
cherish  and  nourish  him  as  their  own  until 
he  is  able  to  take  care  of  himself.  Shall  we 
not  do  as  much  and  forgive  those  who  have 
unknowingly  wronged  us  ?  " 

"The  Lone  Wolf  is  wise  and  has  spoken 
well, "  said  the  maiden  as  she  lifted  her  eyes 
to  his,  "and  she  knows  that  her  brother  has 
withdrawn  his  enmity  toward  the  Mohawk, 
for  his  spirit  has  ceased  to  influence  her  to 
hatred  of  his  slayer  and  has  caused  her  to 
look  upon  him  with  favoring  eyes.  The 
West  Wind  is  proud  to  have  been  chosen  by 
Lone  Wolf  and  will  be  a  true  wife  to  him 
and  will  try  to  cheer  his  wigwam. " 

Thus  was  the  last  of  the  Winnepesaukees 
merged  into  the  stronger  nation.  Many 
years  did  Lone  Wolf  live  to  teach  the  spirit 
of  peace  and  good  will  to  his  people ;  until 
when  the  white  man  was  first  stretching 
forth  over  the  country,  all  was  prosperity. 

When  at  last  the  old  chief  lay  upon  his 
death-bed,  he  thus  prophesied  of  the  future 
of  his  tribe  :  ' '  Lone  Wolf  has  followed  his 
last  trail.  No  more  will  he  sit  in  council 
with  his  tribe,  and  no  more  will  his  canoe 
skim  over  the  waters  of  the  lake.  The  white 


A    TALE    OF    WINNEPESAUKEE.  71 

man's  foot  has  been  planted  in  our  midst, 
and  it  will  soon  crowd  out  the  red  man  from 
these  scenes ;  but  the  name  of  the  Mohawk 
shall  live  forever.  When  we  are  nearly  for- 
gotten, and  the  boat  of  the  white  man  shall 
float  where  now  is  my  canoe,  I  will  ap- 
pear to  him  and  make  known  my  face  and  he 
shall  set  its  likeness  in  front,  where  it  can 
gaze  over  these  hills  and  waters,  and  shall 
carry  my  name  and  face  to  all  who  meet 
him. " 

The  Winnepesaukee  and  Mohawk  are  no 
more  ;  for  long  years  they  have  lain  beneath 
the  sod.  The  waters  of  the  beautiful  lake 
still  lie  embosomed  in  the  shadows  of  the 
hills  and  forest,  and  the  prophecy  of  the 
chief  is  fulfilled,  for  the  white  man's  boat, 
the  "Mohawk"  now  floats  upon  its  bosom 
and  bears  at  its  prow  the  protytype  of  the 
old  chieftain,  where  it  can  look  over  the 
scenes  where  he  once  taught  the  principles  of 
peace  and  happiness. 

The  steamer  Mohawk,  Dr.  H.  F.  Libby,  owner,  bears 
on  its  front  a  bas  relief  of  a  Mohawk  Indian,  cast  in 
bronze. 


HORN-POUT 
FISHING. 


HORN-POUT  FISHING. 


OME  time  ago  I  introduced  you  to  boy 
Bob,  and  some  of  you  were  glad  to 
meet  him.  Yes,  Bob  is  a  character, 
he's  honest,  and  has  never  learned  much  of 
the  art  of  politeness,  so  he  often  says  things 
about  people  and  things  that  seem  rude,  but 
he  does  not  mean  it  to  be  so,  it's  simply  that 
he  has  not  yet  learned  to  be  a  hypocrite,  and 
says  what  he  thinks. 

Bob  was  sitting  curled  up  in  the  big  easy 
chair  in  my  den  one  day,  which  he  had  got 
in  the  habit  of  doing,  when  he  was  not  busy 
elsewhere,  and  had  been  reading  a  copy  of 
the  Amateur  Sportsman.  I  was  busy  writing 
and  had  not  noticed  that  he  was  looking  at 
me,  'till  I  felt  him. 

It's  funny  how  you  can  feel  anyone  looking 
at  you,  I  think  it  must  be  the  result  of  the 
sixth  sense  in  man.  I  have  often  lain  hidden 
in  the  woods  and  noticed  that  an  animal  that 
I  was  watching  intently  would  get  uneasy 


76  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

and  finally  disappear  as  if  he  knew  he  was 
being  watched.  I  finally  looked  up  and  said, 
"Well,  Bob,  what  is  it?" 

Bob  grinned,  as  if  he  appreciated  the  situ- 
ation and  broke  out  with,  "  Say,  Uncle  Mat, 
you  know  Gammons?" 

"  What  Gammons,  the  Eastern  manager  of 
the  Boots  and  Shoes  Weekly?" 

"Oh  pshaw,  there's  only  one  Gammons. 
I  mean  Wendall  Gammons,  has  suthin  to  do 
with  this  paper  I  been  readin'.  You  said 
that  it  made  a  man  fat  to  be  jolly.  Well, 
he's  jolly,  all  right,  and  fat  too  ;  golly,  he'd 
roll  either  way.  Told  me  some  stories  the 
other  day  'bout  his  goin'  fishin'  when  he  was 
a  boy.  He  come  along,  when  I  was  layin' 
down  on  the  stringer  of  the  dam,  watchin' 
the  frost  fish,  and  he  set  down  and  we  got  to 
talkin'  'bout  boys  and  what  they  did  when  he 
was  young.  He  said  : 

"That  was  d  good  while  ago,  Bob.  I  was 
a  tender  hearted  boy  in  those  days,  and  my 
first  fish  seemed  to  be  about  the  biggest  that 
ever  happened.  It  was  a  horn-pout,  a  horn- 
pout  with  lively  horns,  and  the  fish  might 
have  weighed  half  a  pound.  I  might  tell 
you,  Bob,  that  it  weighed  half  a  pound  and 


HORN-POUT     FISHING.  77 

you  would  believe  it.  I  might  tell  you  it 
weighed  two  pounds,  and  you  might  believe 
that.  But,  Robert,  my  boy,  always  tell  the 
truth  when  you  have  got  anything  to  say  about 
fishing.  Fish  story  liars  may  get  into  heaven 
all  right,  but  they  are  becoming  so  numerous 
as  to  become  almost  obnoxious,  and  I  wouldn't 
for  the  world  have  you  accuse  me  of  pre- 
varicating. 

"But  about  the  fish.  I  landed  him  with  a 
birch  stick  and  a  piece  of  twine,  one  summer 
morning  while  fishing  in  the  Shoestring  pond 
at  South  Carver,  Mass.  I  had  heard  an 
older  brother  say  something  about  horn-pouts 
and  from  the  painful  sensation  that  I  experi- 
enced in  removing  that  fish  from  the  hook, 
I  determined  at  once  that  it  was  a  horn-pout 
— and  it  was. 

' '  Horn-pouts  are  very  intelligent.  In  fact, 
Bob,  they  are  the  most  intelligent  fish  that 
ever  grew  from  little  eggs — and  this  one  for 
intelligence  beat  them  all.  To  make  a  long 
story  short,  I  kept  that  fish  and  educated  it. 
I  called  him  Bill  because  all  fish  are  fond 
of  water,  and  all  the  Bills  I  had  ever  known 
were  not  fish. 


78  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

"When  Bill  got  so  he  could  almost  talk, 
people  came  from  miles  around  to  see  him. 
Talk  about  knowing  things,  that  Bill  was 
an  encyclopedia.  He  knew  more  than  enough 
and  finally  like  some  men,  got  so  much 
knowledge  that  it  killed  him. 

' '  There  used  to  be  a  nice  little  lady  next 
door  to  where  we  lived,  that  I  used  to  think 
a  good  deal  of — and  another  little  lady — not 
quite  so  nice — in  another  part  of  the  town, 
that  I  used  to  like  pretty  well.  They  both 
liked  Bill,  and  both  of  them  imagined  that 
they  had  a  cinch  upon  my  affections.  Now 
mind  you,  I  don't  say  Bill  got  to  telling 
tales  about  me,  but  somehow  those  two  little 
ladies  found  out  that  I  was  a  cruel,  heartless 
flirt,  and  the  result  was  that  we  all  quarrelled. 
I  blamed  Bill  for  the  whole  business.  There 
wasn't  any  funeral,  but  Bill  was  dead  enough 
when  I  got  through  with  him.  There  is  such 
a  thing  as  knowing  too  much." 

"I  was  so  tickled  over  that  yarn  that  I 
went  home  and  wrote  it  down  just  as  nigh 
the  way  he  said  it  as  I  could.  He's  a  funny 
chap,  keep  a  feller  laughin'  all  the  time.  I'd 
like  to  go  fishin' with  Gammons.  He'd  make 
bully  ballast  for  that  canoe  o'  yourn.  Say, 


HORN-POUT     FISHING.  79 

'member  the  first  time  I  saw  you  ?  I  was 
down  on  the  bridge,  ketchin'  horn-pouts." 

"Yes.     Why." 

"Well  I  was  thinkin'  I'd  like  a  mess,  they 
must  be  gettin'  ready  to  bite  pretty -quick. 
Don't  you  wanter  go  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Bob,  I  don't  care  much 
for  that  sort  of  fishing,  and  the  mosquitoes 
are  biting  pretty  well  too.  I  don't  care  to 
be  eaten  by  mosquitoes  for  a  few  muddy  horn- 
pouts.  They're  not  worth  it." 

' '  I  don't  see  why  you  are  so  set  'gainst 
horn-pouts.  I  druther  have  them  than  perch, 
and  it's  just  as  much  fun  ketchin'  'em." 

"Well,  Bob,  you  can  have  your  choice,  but 
I  prefer  the  perch  to  any  fresh  water  fish 
that  swims.  I  have  eaten  pouts  caught  from 
cold  waters  in  the  sandy  lands,  that  were 
pretty  good,  but  those  from  these  muddy 
bottomed  rivers  are  a  little  too  rank  for  my 
taste." 

"Oh,  I  know  they  are  not  so  good  as  some 
fish,  but  they  smell  fishy,  and  I  ha'int  been 
fishin'  but  once  since  last  fall.  Come  on, 
please  do." 

So  I  went,  more  to  hear  what  Bob  had  to 
say  about  horn-pouts  than  for  any  other  rea- 


80  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

son,  for  Bob  always  discoursed  on  the  family 
affairs  of  his  game.  I  had  plentifully  sup- 
plied myself  with  tobacco  and  ' '  punkie-dope  " 
determined  to  give  the  insect  pests  a  tussle 
for  their  supper. 

We  sat  ourselves  on  an  old  stonewall,  that 
ended  in  the  river,  threaded  a  generous  worm 
on  our  hooks  and  waited.  Only  the  deep 
tones  of  the  frogs  and  the  peeping  of  noctur- 
nal insects,  occasionally  broken  by  the  call 
of  some  farmer  belated  at  his  milking,  broke 
the  stillness  and  I  began  to  get  a  little  dreamy 
when  Bob  ejaculated  "  Dot  rot  these  skeeters, 
lend  me  that  bottle  of  stuff  you  put  on  your 
face,  will  you  ?  Say,  this  makes  me  think  of 
Ed.  Curtis.  He  said  the  mosquitoes  were  so 
thick  down  south  during  the  war  that  they 
stretched  him  out  pullin'  at  both  ends.  Con- 
sidering he's  6  ft.  4  now,  he  could  have  let 
himself  to  Barnum  if  the  rebs  hadn't  sur- 
rendered for  another  year  or  two.  Say,  did 
you  ever  see  an  ole  horn-pout  with  a  school 
of  young 'uns.  Well  I  found  one  in  a  "slew" 
and  watched  'em  for  a  week  and  she  acted 
just  like  a  hen  with  a  brood  of  chickens. 
Gee,  I  got  a  whale." 


HORN-POUT     FISHING.  81 

Bob  had  got  a  little  high  toned  since  I  got 
him  a  rod,  and  had  eschewed  his  old  birch 
pole,  and  a  good  sized,  pout  can  pull  pretty 
well  on  a  light  rod.  He  pulled  in  a  fish 
which  weighed  perhaps  half  a  pound. 

' '  Gemini,  I  thought  I  had  a  big  one  on  then. 
What  a  difF — it  makes  using  this  little  rod. 
Gosh,  I  got  it  that  time.  He  stuck  his  horn 
in  me  about  a  foot  and  he's  swallowed  the 
hook.  Well  I  got  to  go  up  to  the  fire." 

We  had  built  a  fire  about  fifty  feet  behind 
us  to  attract  the  mosquitoes  and  furnish 
light  to  extract  the  swallowed  hooks.  By  the 
time  Bob  was  back  I  had  a  fish  and  told  him 
to  take  it  off,  as  he  had  his  hand  in. 

"  Gee,"  says  Bob,  "I  think  the  fish  had  it 
into  my  hand  instead.  Its  easy  to  get  'em 
off.  Take  hold  of  the  sides  with  your  fingers, 
right  side  of  his  fins,  "Tand  press  the  horn  on 
his  back  down  with  yer  hand  and  squeeze  hard. 
Then  he  can't  'horn'  yer.  Sometimes  he'll 
do  it  though,  spite  of  it.  Wai'  I'll  try  it 
again  now.  Say,  boss,  how  big  a  pout  did 
you  ever  see  ?  " 

' '  Oh ,  two  pounds  and  a  half  is  a  pretty  big 
pout,  I  never  saw  many  as  big  as  that  and 
none  as  big  as  that  in  these  waters,  but 


82  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

Goode  says  they  sometimes  weigh  three  or 
four  pounds.  Some  of  their  relatives,  the 
catfish,  grow  to  enormous  size.  The  Mis- 
sissippi cat  has  been  taken  weighing  one 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds." 

"Gee-whiz,  I  wouldn't  like  to  get  one 
o'  them  fellers  on  a  rod.  T' would  take  a 
clothes  line  to  hold  him.  By  jiminy,  what  a 
fish.  Say,  are  there  very  many  that  size  ?" 

"No  probably  not,  for  a  western  man  told 
me  he  fished  a  week  for  a  big  one  and  did 
not  get  a  bite." 

"Wai',  are  them  big  fellers  good  for  any 
thing  after  you  get  'em  ? 

"He  said  he  had  a  slice  off  of  one  that 
weighed  about  thirty  pounds,  and  it  tasted 
much  like  rancid  wheel  grease ;  but  many 
species  of  cats  are  good  eating.  The  blue 
cat  of  the  southern  streams  is  celebrated  for 
its.  delicate  flavor;  but  then,  you  know, 
"there  is  a  difference  in  taste,"  as  the  old 
woman  said  when  she  kissed  the  cow." 

' '  Oh  !  horn-pouts  are  good  eatin' ;  they're 
sweet  when  they're  fresh  caught  and  there 
ain't  so  many  bones  in  'em  as  there  is  in  a 
perch.  Gammons  was  tellin'  'bout  a  man  in 
Carver,  who  had  a  big  mouth.  When  he  eat 


HORN-POUT     FISHING.  83 

herrin',  he'd  put  'em  in  one  corner  and  the 
bones  came  out  of  the  other  side  as  the  meat 
went  down  his  throat,  but  yer  don't  need 
that  kind  of  a  hopper  for  pouts.  "  Say,  did 
you  ever  "jug"  fish. 

Now,  of  course  I  had  read  about  "jugging" 
for  cats  in  the  west,  but  I  have  found  that 
you  must  not  know  too  much  if  you  want  to 
draw  Bob  out,  so  I  dissembled. 

"I  have  heard  of  it,  Bob,  but  never  tried 
it,  did  you  ?" 

"Yep!  I  read  about  it  in  a  book,  and 
when  my  cousin  came  down  from  New 
Hampshire,  we  got  to  talkin'  about  it,  and 
we  thought  we  would  try  it.  So  we  got 
about  three  dozen  old  bottles,  and  went  up  to 
the  pond ;  and  we  tied  a  hook  and  line  on 
the  neck  of  each  bottle,  and  put  'em  in  the 
boat  and  rowed  over  where  the  water  was 
not  very  deep  and  put  'em  out  in  a  string 
about  sixty  rod  long  and  then  set  and  waited. 
Pretty  soon  we  saw  one  bob  up  and  down 
and  we  rowed  over  and  picked  it  up.  Well 
we  chased  it  'bout  five  minutes  before  we  got 
hold  of  it,  and  finally  pulled  in  a  perch. 

When  we  got  him  in  we  looked  for  the 
rest  and  they  was  agoin'  in  all  directions. 


84  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

Whew  !  didn't  we  hustle,  we  didn't  have  time 
to  bait  many  of  'em  over  again.  So  we 
chucked  'em  right  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat, 
bottles  and  all,  just  as  we  picked  'em  up. 
We  got  one  eel,  and  he  so  everlastin'ly 
snarled  things  up,  that  it  took  an  hour  to  un- 
tangle the  lines. 

"Wai !  I  had  one  big  bottle,  that  would 
hold  'bout  two  quarts,  and  I  put  a  big  hook 
and  a  live  minner  on  that  one,  and  when  I 
took  'count  of  stock,  I  couldn't  find  that  one 
at  all.  Well,  we  rowed  'round  a  long  time 
and  could  not  see  it.  So  I  come  the  '  Injun ' 
on  it,  and  saw  it  'bout  a  hundred  rods  off 
bobbin'  like  jehu." 

"Hold  on,  Bob,  what  is  coming  the  'In- 
jun' on  it  ?" 

"Why!  don't  you  know?"  queried  Bob. 
"When  you  drop  a  little  thing  on  the  floor 
and  can't  find  it,  jest  lay  down  and  look  all 
'round  and  you  can  see  it  stickin'  up.  So  I 
got  my  head  down  next  the  water  and  looked 
along  the  surface.  That's  what  the  boys 
call  'looking  Injun.'  ' 

"Well,  when  we  see  it,  we  went  over,  and 
just  as  I  reached  out  for  it,  it  went  down  and 
out  of  sight.  Well,  I  nearly  went  over- 


HORN-POUT     FISHING.  85 

board,  I  was  so  'stonished.  We  chased  it  a 
long  time,  and  I  finally  got  hold  of  it  with  an 
oar,  and  pulled  it  in,  and  it  had  a  big  pick'rel 
on  it,  that  weighed  over  two  pounds.  Most 
of  the  fish  was  pouts  and  perch  though. 
Well,  it  was  lots  of  fun,  but  a  good  deal  like 
work  if  your  boat  is  heavy  as  our'n  was." 

All  this  time  that  Bob  was  chatting  away, 
we  had  been  pulling  in  the  ungainly  crea- 
tures, flattened  like  a  miller's  thumb,  and 
bearded  like  a  billy-goat.  I  don't  know  of  a 
homelier  fish  than  a  horn-pout.  There  are 
neither  graceful  lines  nor  pretty  colors. 
They  look  as  if  their  ancestors  had  their 
heads  squat  down  by  some  enormous  thumb 
and  finger,  and  the  black  back,  fading  out 
into  the  white  of  the  belly,  is  anything  but 
pretty.  All  these  things  go  to  show  their 
habit. 

How  wonderfully  does  nature  provide  for 
her  children,  to  protect  them  from  their  en- 
emies, and  adapt  their  form  to  their  mode  of 
life.  Even  this  homely  fish  furnishes  a  beau- 
tiful lesson  in  evolution.  The  sluggish,  bot- 
tom feeding  habit  has  flattened  its  head  and 
set  the  mouth  low  down  nearly  on  a  level 
with  the  belly  ;  the  numerous  feelers,  or  bar- 


86  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

bels,  furnish  means  of  discovering  their  food 
in  the  muddy  water ;  and  the  black  color  of 
the  back,  of  the  same  hue  as  the  mud  on 
which  they  lie,  protects  them  from  the  at- 
tacks of  their  enemies  ;  while  the  belly,  lying 
next  the  mud,  and  not  exposed  to  view, 
has  turned  to  the  neutral  white  or  gray. 

"Well,"  says  Bob,  "I  think  the  skeeters 
are  pretty  thick,  to  make  a  lecture  on  Nat- 
ural History  real  interesting  I  move  we  ad- 
journ. Gee !  Whiz !  I  guess  there  ain't 
been  anybody  here  this  year.  Leastwise, 
these  skeeters  is  mighty  hungry.  Le's  git !  " 
and  we  got. 

On  the  way  home,  I  told  Bob  of  the  ef- 
forts to  introduce  the  catfish  into  Europe  and 
Punch's  poetic  protest,  ending  with 

"They  say  the  catfish  climbs  the  trees 
And  robs  the  roosts,  and,  down  the  breeze 

Prolongs  his  catterwaul. 
Ah,  leave  him  in  his  western  flood, 
Where  Mississippi  churns  the  mud, 

Don't  bring  him  here  at  all !" 


THE  FOX  WE  DID  NOT  GET. 


Photo,  by  C.  M.  Emerson. 

WATCHING    A    RUNWAY. 


THE   FOX   WE   DID   NOT   GET. 


IGH  up  on  a  ridge,  girt  about  with 
forests,  which  stretch  away  in  silent 
majesty  to  the  place  where  they 
fade  away  into  the  horizon,  sits  a  long,  low 
house,  known  in  the  vicinity  as  "  The  Hunt- 
er's Camp,"  the  resort  of  a  jolly  band  of 
hunters,  who  come  from  the  cities  miles 
away,  to  throw  off  the  cares  of  business,  and 
breathe  in  the  health-giving  air,  redolent 
with  the  odors  of  spruce  and  fir.  Four  miles 
to  the  nearest  store,  and  only  three  little 
farm  houses  in  sight  across  miles  of  country. 

The  owner  is  the  jolliest  fellow  of  the  lot, 
and  if  we  were  to  tell  his  name,  it  would  be 
recognized  at  once  by  many  of  the  sportsmen 
and  naturalists  who  read  these  columns. 
•  This  is  the  scene  of  our  story. 

A  little  party  of  sportsmen  were  sitting 
around  the  fire  after  supper  one  night  in 
December,  and,  as  usual,  were  relating 
reminiscences  of  former  hunts,  when  the 


90  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

talk  drifted  toward  foxes,  and  fox-hunting, 
by  Will  coming  in  from  out-doors  and  say- 
ing: 

"Say  boys,  it  is  snowing  a  little,  but  I 
don't  think  it  will  last  long,  and  if  we  get 
about  an  inch  on  the  ground,  it  will  be  good 
tracking  tomorrow.  What  do  you  say  to 
getting  up  about  three  o'clock  and  going  over 
to  Line  Hill  ? 

There  was  an  expression  of  assent  from 
all,  the  only  objection  being  from  Harry, 
who  did  not  want  to  get  up  early. 

' '  Do  you  want  to  see  a  fox  ?  "  says    Will. 

"Of  course  I  do.  But  what's  the  use  of 
turning  out  the  night  before  ? " 

"Well,  if  you  want  to  see  a  fox,  you  will 
get  over  to  the  stand  by  daylight,  or  it  will 
be  noon  before  we  get  one  there,  and  we 
may  not  then.  The  scent  lies  stronger  in 
the  morning,  and  you  want  to  get  out,  before 
the  sun  dries  it  up. 

"Yes,"  says  Harry,  "but  don't  the  foxes 
wander  around  in  the  day  time?" 

"Not  much,  down  here.  They  generally 
get  up  on  a  side  hill,  soon  after  daylight, 
and  lie  down  for  the  day.  You  see,  they 
are  out  hunting  all  night,  after  mice  and 


THE    FOX  WE    DID    NOT    GET.  91 

rabbits,  and  by  daylight  they  commence  to 
lay  up  for  the  day." 

"I  thought  they  lived  in  burrows,  in  the 
ground." 

"So  they  do,  but  except  in  the  breeding 
season,  they  do  not  hole  up  much,  unless 
they  are  wounded,  or  are  run  too  hard  by 
the  dogs." 

"Ned  Brown,  an  old  fox  hunter  out  in 
Newton,  tells  a  story,"  says  another  of  the 
party,  "that  is  a  pretty  good  illustration  of 
how  a  fox  will  act,  when  he  is  hard  pressed, 
and  how  a  good  dog  will  hold  on  to  them. 

O  O 

Herbert  Baird  and  a  friend  were  hunting 
foxes  one  day,  with  three  dogs,  and  they 
were  on  a  trail.  But,  by  and  by,  two  dogs 
came  back  to  them.  The  missing  dog  was 
an  old  favorite,  and  Baird,  knowing  his 
habits,  said  :  "That  dog  is  holed  up  some- 
where with  a  fox." 

They  hunted  until  night  to  find  him,  with 
no  success,  and  the  next  morning,  they 
loaded  digging  tools  into  the  wagon,  and 
went  where  they  lost  him.  They  hunted  for 
a  long  time,  and  finally  met  a  native,  who 
told  them  that  he  had  seen  a  burrow  that 
looked  as  if  the  dogs  had  been  digging  at  it 


92  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

very  lately ;  and  he  conducted  them  to  the 
spot. 

"There,"  says  Baird,  "my  dog  is  in 
there." 

"O,t pshaw!"  says  his  friend,  "I  don't 
believe  he  ever  got  into  that  hole  ;  why  it  is 
all  stopped  up." 

"Yes,"  replied  Baird,  "that  dog  would 
never  give  up  as  long  as  the  fox  was  ahead 
of  him.  He  has  dug  in  after  the  fox,  the 
other  dogs  have  buried  him  in,  and  he  can't 
get  out.  I  am  going  to  open  the  hole  any- 
way." 

They  started  to  dig,  and  continued  till 
dark,  then  procured  lanterns,  and  kept  on 
till  about  11  o'clock,  when  they  got  to  the 
end  of  the  burrow,  and  found  the  dog  and 
the  dead  fox  with  him.  He  had  been  buried 
for  27  hours,  and  was  lively  and  well  wrhen 
taken  out. 

The  men  had  taken  a  bottle  of  spirits  to 
revive  the  dog,  if  they  found  him  exhausted, 
but  they  needed  the  restorative  more  than 
the  dog  did. 

"That's  a  pretty  big  dog  story,"  says 
Will,  "but  I  see  no  reason  to  doubt  it.  A 
good  dog  will  hold  onto  a  trail  wonderfully. 


THE   FOX    WE    DID   NOT    GET.  93 

They  will  run  till  they  are  so  completely  ex- 
hausted that  they  will  lie  down  right  on  the 
tracks.  I  have  known  dogs  to  run  so  hard 
as  to  kill  themselves." 

"  Say,"  says  Harry,  "does  every  fox  have 
a  burrow  of  its  own?" 

"O,  no!  a  bitch  fox  will  throw  3  to  5 
pups,  and  I  have  heard  of  a  lot  of  23  pups 
being  taken  out  of  one  hole.  There  are 
often  two  or  three  litters  together.  But  we 
must  turn  in  if  we  are  going  to  get  up  early." 

"Bur-r-r-r,  Ting-g-g-g,"  went  the  alarm 
clock  next  morning,  and  a  frowsy  head  was 
poked  out  from  under  the  blankets,  and 
yawns  from  the  other  room  scared  the  rats 
from  their  homes  under  the  attic  floor  of  the 
old  house. 

"What time  is  it?"  says  Harry. 

"  Half  past  three,  and  if  we  are  going  to 
start  a  fox  today,  we  had  better  be  getting 
out  of  this." 

"Well,  I  would  like  to  get  a  fox,  but  I 
don't  want  one  bad  enough  to  get  up  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  to  shoot  it.  Call  me 
when  breakfast  is  ready."  And  a  snort  and 
then  a  snore  arose  from  the  blankets. 


94  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

Heavens,  how  that  young  fellow  could 
snore.  Starting  from  a  low  murmur,  as  of 
pumpkins  rolling  out  of  a  tip  cart,  the  sound 
would  creep  up,  rising  in  volume  and  increas- 
ing in  pitch  till  the  rafters  echoed  with  the 
sound,  and  the  dogs  would  whine  from  their 
kennels  in  the  barn,  till  a  gasp  and  a  snort 
closed  the  performance,  only  to  rise  again 
and  flood  the  air.  I  pity  his  wife,  if  he 
ever  gets  one. 

The  stove  clatters,  and  soon  the  snapping 
of  the  fire  fills  the  kitchen,  and  Will  rolls 
out  of  the  bedroom,  with  eyes  blinking  in  a 
vain  effort  to  keep  open. 

« « What's  the  weather  ?  " 

"Foggy  and  not  very  cold,  but  the  snow 
we  had  last  night  is  in  complete  condition 
for  tracking." 

Will  goes  out  to  interview  the  weather 
man,  and  by  the  time  he  returns,  the  coffee 
is  on,  and  the  ham  sizzling  in  the  pan. 

"  Well,"  he  says  as  he  comes  in,  "if  this 
day  had  been  made  to  order,  it  could  not 
have  been  better.  Where  is  Harry  ?  " 

* '  Snoring ;  told  me  to  call  him  when 
breakfast  was  ready.  Guess  I'll  blow  the 
horn." 


THE    FOX   WE    DID   NOT    GET.  95 

A  couple  of  shells  are  slipped  into  one  of 
the  guns  standing  in  the  rack,  and  with 
stealthy  footsteps,  a  form  glides  into  the 
other  room,  where  a  (;onfused  heap  of 
blankets,  alone  indicates  the  sleeping  form. 
A  window  is  quietly  raised  and  "bang, 
bang,"  the  air  shakes  with  the  concussion. 

"Hi,  there,  there's  a  big  fox  going  up 
over  the  hill  by  you  like  blazes,  go  for  him." 

"Wha',  wha',  what's  the  matter,"  as  a 
dishevelled  head  and  frightened  eyes  sur- 
mounting a  thinly  clad  form  appears  in  the 
bed. 

"  Get  up  there,  the  foxes  will  eat  the  boots 
off  your  feet  if  you  don't  move  round  faster. 
Get  up  there!  Get  up!" 


An  hour  later,  three  forms,  clad  in  shoot- 
ing jackets  and  carrying  guns,  tramp  over 
the  light  snow,  which  covers  the  ground,  and 
a  dog  cavorting  in  frisky  anticipation,  dances 
ahead  of  the  party,  as  it  plods  almost  sul- 
lenly along  in  the  semi-darkness  of  the 
winter's  morning. 

"Now,"  says  Will,  "if  you  fellows  will 
get  up  to  the  stands  on  the  hill,  I  will  take  the 


96  LAKE,  FIELD  AXD  FOREST. 

dog  down  into  the  pines,  and  see  what  we 
can  find.  " 

As  the  solitary  hunters,  holding  their 
places  in  the  twilight  of  the  gathering  dawn, 
pace  to  and  fro,  or  seek  a  shelter  in  the  lee 
of  the  nearest  tree  or  pile  of  rocks,  the  first 
glow  of  the  rising  sun  gilds  the  clouds  float- 
ing above  the  mist  which  covers  the  earth, 
and  the  clarion  voice  of  the  awakening  cock, 
from  a  distant  farm-yard  comes  faintly  to 
the  ear.  In  the  silence,  almost  deathlike, 
broken  only  by  the  sough  of  the  wind  among 
the  junipers  which  dot  the  hill,  they  wait  the 
eager  bay  of  the  hound,  which  will  denote 
the  starting  of  the  fox,  but  they  wait  in  vain. 

"What  can  be  the  matter?  Why  under 
the  sun,  don't  that  dog  start  something?" 
they  muse  as  they  closely  scan  the  sides  of 
the  hill,  over  which  they  hope  to  see  the 
ruddy  coat  of  Sir  Reynard,  trotting  along 
toward  a  sudden  surprise.  But  not  a  sound 
of  bark  or  bay  disturbs  the  air. 

From  the  far  distance,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  valley,  comes  the  sound  of  two  hounds 
in  full  cry,  but  their  quarry  is  not  for  us. 
From  the  other  side  the  hill,  the  bark  of  the 
house  dog  on  the  highway  momentarily 


THE    FOX    WE    DID    NOT    GET.  97 

attracts  the  ear  of  the  silent  watcher,  but  it 
is  not  the  music  he  expects.  A  shrike 
perches  on  the  top  of  a  neighboring  cedar 
and  curiously  eyes  the  motionless  form,  and 
wonders,  what  kind  of  a  tree  that  is  which 
confronts  him. 

"I'd  like  to  have  asmoke,  if  I  dared," 
murmurs  the  gunner,  and  his  hand  automati- 
cally searches  for  the  old  pipe  which  has 
cheered  many  lonely  hours  ;  but  it  would  not 
do,  for  the  keen  nostrils  of  the  fox  would 
quickly  scent  the  tobacco  tainted  air,  and 
goodby  to  the  wished  for  shot  at  the  ruddy 
target. 

Two  weary  hours  pass  away,  and  then  the 
tall  form  of  Will  comes  down  over  the  hill. 

"Well,  what's  the  matter?" 

"I  don't  believe  there  is  a  fox  on  this 
hill,"  says  Will.  "I  have  been  clear  round 
it  and  I  can't  find  a  track,  let's  go  down  and 
find  Harry,  and  go  over  in  the  swamp." 

"Where's  the  dog?" 

"Lost  him  down  in  the  hollow,  he  will 
find  us  pretty  soon.  " 

As  we  walked  away  through  the  pines 
toward  the  swamp,  a  rustle  in  the  underbrush 
brings  the  guns  to  a  ready,  but  it  is  only  the 


98  LAKE,   FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

dog,  and  we  meander  down  the  hillside  to 
the  road,  and  cross  the  track  of  the  dog, 
where  he  passed  a  few  hours  ago. 

Only  a  few  rods  farther,  beside  the  road, 
we  see  the  track  of  a  fox  imprinted  on  the 
spotless  covering  of  new  fallen  snow  ;  if  the 
dog  had  gone  a  little  farther  he  would  have 
found  it. 

"  He-ee-r-e,  Here,  Here,"  goes  out  the  ciy 
as  we  follow  the  track  along,  and  the  dog, 
plunging  back  to  us,  scents  the  pungent  per- 
fume, and  dashes  off  on  the  trail.  We  follow 
along  over  the  brook  and  are  puffing  up  the 
steep  side  of  the  bank  beyond,  when  "  Ow-w- 
w-ow-ow-ow,"  rings  out  from  the  other  side, 
and  when  we  get  over  we  find  he  has  jumped 
the  fox  and  gone  off  over  the  next  swamp. 

"Make  for  the  hill,"  says  Will,  "and  get 
on  your  stands  as  quick  as  you  can.  He 
may  go  over  that  way." 

And  off  we  go  at  a  quick  trot  on  the  back 
track  along  the  hog-back.  We  find  the 
tracks  of  fox  and  dog  where  they  cross  the 
ridge,  and  the  writer  follows  them  a  little 
way  to  see  which  way  they  went,  while 
Harry  goes  on  to  the  big  tree  at  the  corner  of 
the  wall. 


THE    FOX    WE    DID   NOT    GET.  99 

The  tracks  lead  to  the  pines,  so  I  turn  off 
over  a  ridge  toward  the  hill,  when  "bang, 
bang"  goes  a  gun  from  the  stand  by  the  tree, 
not  over  twenty  rods  from  me.  I  stop  and 
listen,  and  soon  hear  the  crash  of  some  an- 
imal as  he  plunges  through  the  thick  brush, 
which  lines  the  brook  beyond.  There  is  a 
narrow  open  place  at  my  right,  where  I  shall 
see  him  if  he  crosses  that  way,  and  sure 
enough  a  flash  of  red  emerges  from  the 
bushes,  but  he  does  not  mind  the  two  charges 
of  No.  1,  which  are  hurled  at  him,  except 
that,  if  possible,  he  quickens  his  pace  as  he 
plunges  behind  the  trunk  of  a  pine  and  dis- 
appears. Before  I  can  get  there,  two  re- 
ports from  the  open  pasture  beyond,  are 
flatly  echoed  up  the  wind,  as  he  passes  Will, 
who  has  just  come  up  from  the  swamp,  but 
the  fox  goes  off  unharmed.  Six  shots,  and 
the  fox  is  yet  running,  and  we  trail  him  to 
his  burrow  near  where  we  started  him.  He 
did  not  hole  up  to  die,  for  we  found  his 
tracks  where  he  came  out,  when  we  passed 
that  way  about  nightfall. 

There  were  many  explanations  why  we 
each  of  us  did  not  get  that  fox,  but  we  all 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  because 


100  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

we  did  not  shoot  straight  enough  to  hit  him. 

If  the  truth  were  told,  would  not  a  great 
many  fox  hunts  turn  out  the  same  way. 

After  supper,  Harry  says:  "Say  partner, 
lend  me  your  pipe,  I  can't  find  mine.  I 
must  have  lost  it.  Haven't  you  got  an  ex- 
tra one  ?  I'll  buy  it  of  you.  Now  give  me 
some  tobacco,  mine  is  all  gone.  I  was  most 
broke  when  I  started,  and  could  not  get  any 
more." 

"Say,  Hurry  you  make  me  think  of  a 
friend  of  mine,  our  local  editor,  and  some- 
thing that  happened  to  him. 

Country  editors  are  noted  as  big  hearted 
men,  who  are  always  willing  to  do  their  fel- 
low men  a  favor.  One  morning  last  week, 
one  of  them  went  to  his  office  at  an  un- 
usually early  hour.  He  had  just  loaded  his 
pet  briar  pipe  with  a  charge  of  the  mind- 
soothing  weed,  when  he  heard  a  step  on  the 
stairs,  and  a  man  of  Hibernian  ancestry, 
slightly  inebriated,  came  in  and  addressed 
him  as  follows  : 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Jones,  a  fine  morn- 
ing it  is,  and  how  is  your  health  this  morn- 
ing. Will  you  do  me  a  favor  this  morning?" 


THE    FOX    WE    DID    NOT    GET.  101 

"Certainly,  Pat,"  was  Jones'  reply,  "I'll 
do  you  any  favor  that  I  am  able." 

"Would  you  spake  the  good  word  for  my 
friend  Murphy,  who  has  just  died.  They  do 
be  telling  hard  stories  about  him,  and  it's  the 
foine  man  he  was." 

"Surely  Pat,"  rejoined  the  editor,  "I 
would  not  say  a  word  that  would  injure  him, 
or  cause  a  moment  of  sorrow  to  any  of  his 
family." 

"I  belave  you,  Mr.  Jones,  I  belave  you, 
you're  a  good  friend  of  moine,  a  dorm  good 
feller.  Say  would  you  do  me  another  favor, 
would  you  give  me  a  pull  at  the  pipe,  I'm 
dyin'  for  a  smoke." 

The  editor  reluctantly  handed  over  the  de- 
sired article,  from  which  he  was  just  drawing 
those  seductive  draughts  so  dear  to  the 
smoker. 

For  a  few  moments,  silence  ensued, 
broken  only  by  the  intermittent  puffs  from 
Pat's  lips. 

"Say,  Mr.  Jones,  that's  a  foine  poipe,  I'll 
give  you  a  quarter  for  it." 

Mr.  Editor,  willing  to  do  anything  to  keep 
his  visitor  in  good  humor,  answers  in  the 
affirmative,  with  a  deep  sigh  at  the  loss  of  his 


102  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

pet,  and  disconsolately  sits  thinking  of  the 
discomfort  of  breaking  in  a  new  one ;  when 
his  visitor  breaks  out  with. 

"Say,  Mr.  Jones,  (puff)  that's  a  great 
smoke,  its  a  foine  poipe,  (puff-puff)  I'm  a 
man  of  me  word,  (puff)  its  a  dorm  foine 
poipe." 

And  he  reaches  down  deep  into  the  reces- 
ses of  his  pocket  and  draws  out  a  quarter, 
which  he  passes  to  Mr.  Jones,  who  transfers 
it  to  his  own  pockets. 

Another  silence,  which  Pat  interrupts  with. 

"Say  Jones,  lend  me  half  a  dollar  to  buy  a 
pint,  I'm  dry  as  a  fish." 

"I'm  sorry,  Pat,  but  I  haven't  a  cent  with 
me,  except  the  quarter  you  just  gave  me." 

"All  roight,  Jones,"  says  Pat,  "give  me 
that,  it'll  buy  a  half  pint." 

Exit  Pat  for  the  desired  drink. 

'  *  I  have  seen  fox  hunters  with  as  big  a 
crust  as  that,"  says  Will,  "but  sometimes 
they  get  their  comeuppence.  A  party  were 
out  fox  hunting  on  Cape  Cod,  and  as  they 
supposed,  run  a  fox  into  its  burrow. 

As  it  was  getting  on  into  the  day,  they 
gave  it  up  and  started  for  the  hotel.  After 
they  had  gone  part  way  back,  a  portion  of 


THE    FOX    WE    DID   NOT    GET.  103 

the  party  made  some  excuse,  separated  from 
the  rest,  and  made  their  way  back  to  the 
burrow,  with  the  idea  of  digging  out  the  fox 
and  winning  all  the  laurels. 

They  borrowed  some  tools  from  a  neigh- 
boring farmhouse,  and  dug  for  about  four 
hours,  and  finally  pulled  out  and  killed,  an 
enormous  wharf  rat.  Discomforted  they 
wended  their  way  back  to  the  hotel  with  the 
understanding  that  the  whole  matter  should 
be  kept  quiet.  But  they  forgot  to  fix  the 
farmer  and  he  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag. 
The  town  was  too  small  to  hold  the  party 
after  that. 


INSECT    HUNTING 
IN  WINTER. 


INSECT  HUNTING   IN   WINTER. 


\  I  /HE    Sportsman-Naturalist  comes    in 
contact  with  all  phases  of  life,  grave 


and  gay,  laughter  provoking  and  pa- 
thetic, sometimes  pursuing  his  prey  amid  the 
burning  sands  in  the  intense  heat  of  midsum- 
mer, and  anon  beneath  the  snow  laden 
branches  of  the  forest  'neath  the  wintry  skies. 
Sleeping  beneath  the  green  umbrageous  foli- 
age of  the  cool  lake  shore,  bedded  with  sweet 
and  feathery  fern,  and  only  a  few  months 
later,  heaping  the  logs  higher  on  the  campfire 
and  tightly  rolled  in  blankets,  turning  to  rest 
on  beds  of  browse  'neath  the  spreading  boughs 
of  Maine's  evergreen  spruce  and  firs,  perhaps 
surrounded  by  snow  and  ice. 

For  fun?  Sometimes.  For  business? 
Much  oftener.  The  editor  and  the  publisher 
call  for  more  copy  and  fresh  scenes ;  the 
dealer  calls  for  a  greater  variety  of  specimens  ; 
or  driven  by  desire  for  recreation,  he  wanders 
at  his  own  sweet  will,  but  ever  turns  to  the, 


108  LAKE,   FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

to  him,  all  absorbing  subject  of  Natural  Life, 
at  once  pleasure  and  business,  omnipresent 
and  ever-interesting. 

A  bird  in  the  trees,  a  fish  in  the  waters,  a 
stone  in  the  wall,  a  butterfly  on  the  nodding 
flower  stalk,  each  speaks  to  him  in  Circean 
tones,  but  which  bring  not  destruction  but 
instruction.  So  it  happened  that  one  day, 
snow  two  feet  deep,  cloudy,  cold,  raw,  signs 
of  more  snow,  etc. ,  we  don  our  toques  and 
leggings,  strap  our  snow-shoes  to  our  backs, 
and,  with  the  implements  of  our  puny  warfare 
at  hand,  start  for  the  woods  to  hunt  the  fes- 
tive beetle. 

"We  imagine  our  readers  saying,  ''What 
the  mischief  are  they  going  bug-hunting  for 
in  a  snowstorm  ! "  But  be  it  known  that 
there  is  not  an  hour,  day  or  night,  during 
the  entire  year,  when  the  entomologist  need 
to  rest  for  want  of  specimens  to  collect. 

My  companion,  and  at  that  time  partner, 
was  a  short,  stocky  Canadian  from  Ontario, 
full  of  life,  and  enthusiastic  in  this  his  fa- 
vorite study, — a  true  type  of  that  hardy 
people  to  whom  the  use  of  the  snow-shoe  and 
moccasin  is  a  second  nature. 


INSECT    HUNTING   IN   WINTER.  109 

We  took  train  for  the  old  Maiden  woods, 
and  after  alighting  and*  leaving  the  houses 
behind,  strap  up,  and  are  soon  skimming  over 
the  frozen  surface,  making  for  a  grove  of 
pines  which  loom  up  in  the  distance. 

The  everpresent  ' '  hoodlum  "  shouts  at  us 
as  we  pass  a  cross-road,  "Oh,  Ink  at  the 
gillies  with  them  things  on  their  feet,  don't 
they  go  fine,  though?  Say,  Mister,  give  us 
a  ride  ?"  But  although  they  might,  no  doubt 
prove  fruitful  fields  to  collect  from,  it  is  not 
that  kind  of  bug  we  are  after,  and  we  go  on 
to  more  congenial  fields. 

The  first  dead  pine  is  attacked,  and  our 
hatchets  soon  start  the  bark  from  the  trunk, 
and  eager  eyes  are  watching  for  the  little 
creatures  as  they  lie  in  their  cosy  nests,  hol- 
lowed out  of  the  inner  bark,  the  surface  of 
which  is  furrowed  by  the  hundreds  of  little 
beetles  which  infest  these  trees. 

Our  first  find  is  a  fine  specimen  of  the 
Ribbed  Bark-beetle  (Rliagium  lineatum). 
It  is  from  one-half  to  three-quarters  of  an 
inch  in  length,  of  a  yellowish- gray  color, 
variegated  with  black.  The  head  and  thorax 
are  much  narrower  than  the  body,  and  the 
antennae  barely  reach  the  base  of  the  elytra. 


110  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

They  lie  in  cosy  little  cells,  between  the  in- 
ner bark  and  the  wQod,  in  which  they  trans- 
form from  the  larval  state,  and  from  which 
they  bore  out  in  the  spring  to  lay  their  eggs 
in  the  crevices  of  the  bark,  again  to  com- 
mence the  round  of  destruction.  A  large 
number  are  often  found  in  one  tree,  and  an 
entry  in  my  Field  Notes  reads,  "  April  2, 
Maiden,  Mass.  Cold  and  stormy.  Over  100 
R.  lineatum  were  found  in  one  dead  white 
pine,  and  twice  that  number  of  larvae." 

The  next  find  is  Pyiho  americanus,  a 
beautiful  little  beetle,  blue  above  and  red  be- 
neath, which  lives  in  a  similar  cell  to  the  last 
mentioned,  excepting  that  the  rim  of  the  cell 
lacks  the  chips  which  invariably  characterize 
the  former. 

Well  do  I  remember  the  first  time  I  found 
this  beetle.  It  was  in  the  woods  near  my 
old  home  in  Braintree,  Mass.,  and  I  was  as- 
siduously working  away  at  a  dead  tree,  when 
a  strange  beetle  dropped  from  under  a  strip 
of  bark  which  I  was  peeling  off,  and  its  bright 
colors  caught  my  eye  as  it  fell.  Down  I 
went  on  my  knees  in  the  snow  and  dirt  to  find 
it  before  it  became  buried  in  the  debris.  I 


INSECT    HUNTING   IN   WINTER.  Ill 

believe  I  took  fifteen  out  of  that  tree,  and  got 
logs  and  piled  them  up  to  reach  higher. 

Another  tree  discloses  a  specimen  of  the 
rare  Alaus  my  ops,  a  somewhat  larger  beetle, 
gray,  with  two  eye-like  black  spots  on  the 
top  of  the  thorax.  This  insect  belongs  to  the 
family  of  JElaters,  or  spring  beetles,  and  is 
closely  related  to  the  Cucujo  or  fire-fly  of  the 
tropics. 

By  this  time  our  toes  have  become  numbed 
by  the  straps  of  our  snow-shoes,  which  have 
borne  too  tightly  over  them,  protected  only 
by  a  thin  moccasin,  and  my  friend  suggested 
that  we  find  some  cosy  corner  where  we  would 
be  sheltered  from  the  wind,  and  build  a  fire, 
warm  our  feet,  and  have  a  lunch.  I  needed 
no  urging,  for  my  toes  had  long  warned  me 
that  they  protested  against  such  treatment, 
and  we  proceeded  to  carry  out  the  will  of  the 
majority. 

The  lunch  was  eaten,  the  fire  was  warm 
and  comfortable,  and  we  lay  back,  wrapped 
in  our  warm  blanket  coats  and  talk  over  the 
incidents  of  the  forenoon. 

"How  many  beetles  have  you  taken?" 
says  Jim.  "I  have  about  two  hundred." 

"You  are  way  ahead   of  me  then,  for  I 


112      LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

have  not  over  fifty,  but  I  have  two  here  that 
I  would  not  swap  all  the  rest  for." 

"Well,"  says  Jim,  "you  remind  me  of  a 
story  that  my  friend  Haywood  used  to  tell  of 
an  old  Judge  in  England,  who  was  an  en- 
thusiastic sportsman,  but  a  very  poor  shot. 
They  were  at  a  Pheasant  drive  on  a  leased 
shooting  down  in  the  Eastern  counties,  one 
day,  and  after  the  drive  was  over,  the  Judge 
had  but  two  birds,  and  one  of  the  party 
asked : 

"How  did  the  Judge  shoot?" 

"Oh,"  says  the  keeper,"  he  shot  beauti- 
fully, but  God  was  very  merciful  to  the  birds." 

Jim  was  too  much  for  me,  collecting  beet- 
les, but  I  could  do  him  up  on  the  butterflies. 
He  was  at  it  all  the  time,  while  I  was  doing 
more  in  the  way  of  taking  notes  and  watch- 
ing their  operations,  than  of  peeling  off  bark. 
By  the  way,  a  good  suggestion  to  parents 
who  want  to  deter  their  children  from  killing 
birds,  and  yet  encourage  them  to  study  Nat- 
ural History,  would  be  to  make  them  a  pres- 
ent of  a  pair  of  opera  glasses  and  a  note 
book,  and  reward  them  for  good  observa- 
tions in  the  fields.  The  boys  would  have 


INSECT    HUNTING    IN    WINTER.  113 

just  as  much  fun,  and  many  birds'  lives  be 
saved. 

We  were  now  thoroughly  warm,  and  my 
partner  challenges  me  to  a  race  to  the  next 
grove  on  a  hill  about  one-quarter  of  a  mile 
distant,  to  warm  ourselves  up,  and  decide 
who  shall  pay  for  the  supper  when  we  get 
back. 

Away  we  go,  skimming  along,  until  a  low 
wall,  on  a  steep  side  hill,  unnoticed  in  the 
excitement  of  the  race,  catches  the  toe  of  my 
friend's  shoe,  and  over  he  goes,  head  first, 
into  the  drift  beyond,  all  out  of  sight  but  his 
short  legs,  looking  like  barbers'  poles,  with 
their  striped  stockings  and  waving  snow- 
shoes,  decorated  with  gay  ribbons  from  the 
last  costume  skating  carnival. 

o 

As  soon  as  I  can  recover  from  my  fit  of 
laughter  at  his  mishap,  I  roll  him  over,  like 
a  big  mud-turtle,  upon  his  back,  for  a  man 
on  snow-shoes  has  a  hard  job  to  get  up  with- 
out assistance,  and  as  he  arises  and  blows 
the  snow  from  his  bushy  moustache,  he  says, 
"No  snow  down  there,  crops  coming  up 
finely,  that  field  won't  need  ploughing  next 


114  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

But  little  mishaps  like  this  do  not  trouble 
us,  and  off  we  go  again,  until  the  rapidly 
falling  snow  and  the  cold  winds  fairly 
drive  us  back  to  the  city,  full  of  renewed 
life  and  spirits  to  once  more  tackle  business 
affairs.  I  paid  for  that  supper.  Canada  won 
the  race. 

Although  it  may  seem  incredible  to  the 
ordinary  reader  that  much  pleasure  can  be 
derived  from  a  tramp  in  the  woods,  when  the 
snow  is  deep,  and  the  mercury  fast  on  its 
way  towards  zero,  with,  perhaps,  the  snow 
falling  fast  around  you  as  you  tramp  over 
the  whitened  earth ;  still,  the  entomologist, 
as  he  glances  over  these  lines,  will  lie  back 
in  his  chair,  and  live  over  the  hours  which  he 
passed  in  just  such  circumstances.  How 
cold  his  feet  were,  as  he  tramped  over  the 
snow,  with  eyes  and  senses  alert  to  catch 
some  favorable  spot,  and  when  he  has 
stripped  the  bark  from  some  tree,  and  found 
a  little  insect,  for  which,  perhaps,  he  has 
been  searching  for  a  long  time  to  fill  some 
vacant  spot  in  his  cabinet,  how  soon  are  the 
cold  feet  and  the  other  discomforts  of  the 
body  forgotten.  And  who  would  not  endure 
these  trifling  privations,  to  look  at  this  in- 


INSECT    HUNTING   IN   WINTER.  115 

sect,  properly  classified  and  in  its  place 
among  others  of  its  tribe,  and  on  the  cold 
winter  evenings  to  sit  by  the  fire  and,  as  we 
examine  its  beautiful  structure,  to  live  over 
those  hours. 

While  we  are  enduring  privations,  or 
working  hard  to  get  out  of  some  difficulty, 
we  think  that  the  game  is  hardly  worth  the 
candle  :  but  after  it  is  all  over,  and  we  sit  by 
the  fireside  thinking  and  living  it  all  over 
again,  we  forget  the  discomforts,  and  remem- 
ber only  the  pleasant  portions,  and  deter- 
mine to  try  it  again. 

Sneer  at  the  "bug-hunter"  or  the  "Nat- 
uralist crank,"  if  you  will,  but  he  has  pleas- 
ures which  you  wot  not  of,  and  these  little 
things  teach  to  him  grander  secrets  than  all 
the  garbled  theories  of  past  ages.  Or  per- 
haps, as  he  roams  the  woods,  maybe  in  a 
strange  place,  as  I  once  did,  with  his  gun 
under  his  arm,  for  a  shot  at  some  stray  rab- 
bit, he  is  overtaken  by  the  shades  of  night  in 
a  lonely  place,  and  with  the  only  alternative 
to  roam  the  woods  all  night  or  build  a  fire 
and  roast  a  rabbit  for  supper,  and  then  after 
a  smoke  for  a  night  cap,  can  roll  himself  in 
his  ulster,  and  lie  down  by  the  side  of  the 


116  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

fire,  and  comfortably  covered,  can  watch  the 
firelight  and  think  over  the  captures  of  the 
day,  and  finally  drop  to  sleep  as  peacefully 
as  a  child  in  its  mother's  arms,  to  dream  of 
loved  ones  far  away,  secure  in  the  thought 
that  there  is  nothing  there  to  harm  him,  as 
he  lies  in  the  midst  of  Dame  Nature's  works. 
And  why  not?  After  all,  life  is  but  a 
span,  and  nothing  serious  can  befall  us,  and 
it  be  our  fate  to  there  end  our  mortal  days, 
where  can  we  find  a  more  glorious  mausoleum, 
than  the  undying  cliffs,  or  a  more  peaceful, 
lullaby  than  the  song  of  the  winds  in  the 
soughing  pines. 


LAKE  TROUT 
FISHING. 


g 

o 

s 

£ 


LAKE  TROUT  FISHING. 


Vr/ELEGRAM,  Sir." 
~]  I  /_        As  I  looked  up  from  my  desk, 
^       a    vision    in    blue    uniform    and 
brass  buttons,   held  me  a  yellow  envelope. 
"Any  answer,  sir?" 

There  were  only  five  words  on  the  slip  en- 
closed, "Come  up  to-night,  sure."  Signed, 
"Henry." 

The  boy  was  dismissed,  no  reply  was 
needed,  but  what  did  it  mean  ?  And  I  won- 
dered the  rest  of  the  day.  And  I  wondered 
till  I  went  to  see  what  it  meant. 

My  friend  Doctor  Henry  was  seated  in  his 
easy  chair,  when  I  entered,  and  was  calmly 
reading  his  evening  paper,  and  oblivious  to 
any  undue  excitement,  that  would  suggest 
any  cause  for  the  telegram. 

"What's  the  row,  Doc.,  that  you  telegraph 
me  to  come  up  ?  Sick  ?" 

"Yes,  sick  of  Boston,  I  am  going  up  to 


120  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

the  lake,  Saturday.  Come  on.  If  its  not 
too  laite  we  will  get  a  few  lake  trout." 

"I  would  like  to,  Doc.,  but  I  am  afraid  I 
can't,  I  must  stay  and  look  after  business." 

' '  Oh  let  the  business  go  for  a  few  days  and 
come  along.  You  are  not  so  important  that 
business  wont  go  without  you.  Say,  my  boy, 
who  will  attend  to  business  when  you're  dead  ? 
Do  you  expect  the  world  will  stop  then  ?" 

"No,  I  suppose  not,  but  'twon't  make  any 
difference  to  me  then." 

"Now  my  boy,"  says  the  doctor,  "Man 
that  is  born  of  woman  is  small  potatoes,  and 
few  in  a  hill.  When  we  die,  the  hole  we 
leave,  will  be  just  the  size  of  the  cavity  left 
in  a  pail  of  water,  when  you  pull  your  finger 
out'  of  it.  Come  on.  No  preparation 
needed.  I  have  rods  enough  at  the  lake, 
and  the  steamer  will  be  at  the  wharf,  waiting 
for  us,  when  the  train  gets  in  tomorrow 
night.  Will  you  go?" 

Now  man  that  is  born  of  woman  is  not 
only  small  potatoes,  but  he  is  weak  in  the 
knees,  when  the  hour  of  temptation  comes, 
and  I  hesitated.  He  who  hesitates  is  lost, 
and  I  am  afraid  that  I  was  lost  when  the 


LAKE    TROUT   FISHING.  121 

subject  was  broached.  Anyway  I  went,  and 
I  stayed  till  I  got  my  first  "  togue." 

Now  I  suppose  that  some  scientific  fisher- 
man will  put  up  a  kick  and  say  that  a 
Winnepesaukee  Lake  trout  is  not  a  "togue." 
Now  let's  go  into  executive  session,  and 
moralize  a  little.  This  fish,  closely  allied  to 
the  Salmon  and  other  trout,  has  as  many 
names  as  a  Spanish  Grandee.  They  call 
him  Namaycush  in  the  Great  lakes ;  Lunge 
on  our  North-eastern  boundaries  ;  Togue  in 
Maine,  and  various  other  aliases  in  other 
places,  but  when  you're  calling,  call  me  to 
dinner,  and  I'll  eat  him  under  any  name. 
The  flesh  is  pink,  and  well  flavored,  though  a 
little  dry,  and  needs  a  generous  allowance 
of  good,  melted  butter  to  help  it  along. 

In  appearance  they  vary  with  every  water 
they  inhabit,  and  though  not  as  gamy  as  a 
brook  trout,  a  fish  running  from  three  to  fif- 
teen pounds  will  furnish  some  excitement,  if 
he  has  got  any  trout  blood  in  him  at  all. 

The  ride  from  Boston  to  the  lake  is  long 
and  tedious,  despite  the  changing  scenery  as 
we  pass  from  Massachusetts  into  New  Hamp- 
shire, and  "we  had  all  been  there  before, 
several  times,"  but  picking  up  an  addition  to 


122       LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

our  party  at  Dover,  we  finally  got  there,  and 
left  the  train  at  Wolf  borough. 

The  steamer  was  at  the  wharf,  and  we  got 
away  immediately.  I  must  stop  a  moment 
to  describe  the  "Mohawk"  for  she  is  a  beau 
ideal  for  a  gentleman-sportsman's  boat. 
About  forty  feet  long,  her  forward  part  was 
cased  in  plate  glass,  affording  protection  from 
the  weather,  while  aft  of  the  engine,  curtains 
could  be  pulled  down  when  needed.  She 
was  fitted  with  all  necessary  conveniences, 
and  if  desired,  a  party  could  live  on  board 
for  weeks,  as  well  as  in  an  ocean  steamer. 

We  were  afraid  that  the  weather  was  get- 
ting pretty  warm  for  the  fish,  for  it  was 
toward  the  last  of  June,  and  like  all  of  the 
trout  family,  this  fish  likes  cool  water,  and 
as  the  sun  gets  higher  in  the  heavens,  they 
seek  the  deeper  portions  of  the  lake,  so  the 
first  question  was  : 

"Say,  Cap.  have  the  trout  done  biting?" 

"No,"  was  the  reply,  " a  party  from  Alton 
Bay  caught  a  11-pounder  this  morning." 

"Well  boys,"  said  the  Doctor  "I  guess 
we'll  get  some  then." 

The  Doctor's  cottage  was  on  the  shore  of 
Tuftonboro  Bay,  and  just  opposite  the  en- 


LAKE    TROUT   FISHING.  123 

trance  which  leads  in  from  the  lake.  Our 
party  was  made  up  of  ten  persons,  three  of 
whom  were  ladies,  but  as  only  three  bear 
any  relation  to  our  story,  we  will  confine  our 
attention  to  them. 

The  Doctor  was  a  lithe,  active  body,  with 
muscles  like  steel  trained  by  years  of  work 
over  the  dental  chair,  and  indefatigable  in 
pursuit  of  sport,  either  with  gun  or  rod,  he 
wanted  the  best  of  everything  and  he  got  it. 
He  worked  hard  at  his  profession  and  he  en- 
joyed his  holidays  thoroughly,  and  better 
still,  he  made  his  guests  enjoy  themselves. 
What  more  could  you  ask  ? 

Uncle  Alonzo  was  an  elderly  gentleman, 
slipping  down  the  path  of  life,  and  hurried 
along  by  that  insidious  disease,  consumption. 
He  needed  to  be  careful,  but  he  dearly  loved 
to  feel  the  tug  of  a  good  fish  on  his  split  bam- 
boo, and  he  intended  to  go  fishing  as  long  as 
his  strength  would  allow. 

The  third  party  was  dubbed  ' '  Bugs "  for 
he  would  leave  his  work  to  chase  butterflies, 
and  always  carried  a  bottle  to  confine  his 
victims.  No  more  need  be  said,  he  was  no 
better  than  he  ought  to  be. 


124      LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

The  day  in  question  now,  was  the  first 
pleasant  one  following  two  days  of  rain. 
The  boat  had  been  out,  and  fish  had  been 
caught,  but  no  trout.  The  weather  and  the 
water  was  cooler  for  the  rain,  and  the 
steamer  started  out  with  its  living  freight, 
fully  prepared  to  get  trout,  or  know  the 
reason  why. 

Let  us  explain  a  little.  On  the  after  deck 
were  fastened  two  chairs  on  swivels,  for  the 
fishermen,  and  a  button  was  set  on  the  edge 
of  the  upper  deck,  which  connected  the 
sportsmen  with  the  engineer.  When  the 
fishing  grounds  were  reached,  the  engine  was 
set  on  the  notch,  and  the  boat  jogged  along 
at  the  proper'  rate  of  speed  to  spin  the  bait 
and  not  drag  it  too  fast.  The  hooks  were 
baited  with  alive  "red-fin, "a  heavy  sinker 
attached  to  carry  it  down  into  the  depths 
where  lurked  the  finny  monsters,  and  we  sat 
back  and  waited  for  a  bite. 

Uncle  Lon  and  Bugs  had  the  seats  of 
honor,  the  two  chairs,  for  the  latter  was  a 
neophyte,  and  the  former  was  going  to  show 
him  how  to  do  it.  The  doctor  was  master 
of  ceremonies,  and  not  long  did  they  wait, 
for  shortly  Doc  says  : 


LAKE    TROUT   FISHING.  125 

"  Bugs,  you've  got  a  fish  on. " 

"  Guess  not,"  says  Bugs. 

"Guess  yes,"  says  Uncle  Lon,  "confound 
you,  a  greenhorn  for  luck." 

And  Bugs  soon  found  that  he  had  some- 
thing to  learn,  for  his  line  commenced  to  run 
out,  and  Doctor  touched  the  button,  and 
stopped  the  engine. 

"Snub  him,  Bugs." 

"Give  him  the  butt,  Bugs." 

"Hold  on  to  him,  Bugs,  till  I  get  a  rope 
round  you,  he'll  have  you  overboard." 

And  it  did  look  as  if  Bugs  had  the  buck- 
fever  and  was  going  over  board  after  the  fish. 
This  way  and  that  way,  starboard  and  port, 
up  to  the  surface  and  down  toward  the  bot- 
tom went  the  frightened  fish,  but  flesh  and 
blood  could  not  stand  the  strain  of  the  little 
bamboo  rod,  and  the  weight  of  the  lump  of 
lead.  Bugs  had  landed  big  fish  before,  and 
though  the  tactics  of  this  one  were  a  little 
strange  to  him,  he  slowly  reeled  in  his  line, 
and  the  long-handled  landing  net  was  slipped 
under  the  exhausted  fish,  and  he  came  upon 
deck. 

"How  much  does  he  weigh?"  was  the 
universal  cry. 


126  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

The  Doctor  deliberately  hung  him  on  the 
spring  balance,  and  said  : 

"  Six  pounds  and  a  half." 

But  Bugs  saw  a  peculiar  smile  on  the  faces 
of  the  party,  and  began  to  smell  a  rat.  He 
had  caught  fish  before  and  never  saw  a  fish 
of  that  size  that  weighed  so  heavy. 

"Hold  on  there,  Doc.,  let  me  see  those 
scales." 

Sure  enough  there  it  was  6£  pounds,  but 
not  satisfied,  he  lifted  the  fish  off  the  hook, 
and  the  scales  went  back  only  to  the  2f 
mark.  That  trick  did  not  work  that  time, 
and  the  laugh  was  on  the  doctor.  But  one 
man  had  carried  what  he  thought  was  a  6- 
pounder  back  to  Boston  and  thought  it  had 
shrunk  badly  in  eight  hours.  However,  a  3f 
pound  trout  was  good  enough  to  keep. 

The  engine  was  again  started  and  Bugs 
did  the  same  trick  twice  more,  and  nobody 
else  caught  a  fish  that  day.  They  all  weighed 
within  two  ounces  of  the  same  mark. 

Uncle  Lon  was  very  sore,  for  not  only 
had  the  greenhorn  beaten  the  experienced 
fisherman,  but  said  E.  F.  had  not  even  had 
a  bite. 


LAKE    TROUT   FISHING.  127 

"Well,  Uncle  Lon,"  says  Bugs.  "I 
shall  have  to  show  you  how  to  catch  trout. 
I  thought  you  was  a  fisherman.  I  want  to 
see  that  10-pounder  you  were  telling  about 
this  morning."  Which  remarks  were  very 
rude ,  and  were  to  be  thrown  down  his  throat 
the  next  day.  But  now,  Uncle  Lon  only 
sadly  shook  his  head  and  held  his  peace. 

Next  day,  we  were  at  it  again,  but  there 
were  no  strikes  for  a  long  time,  and  we  had 
made  up  our  minds  that  we  would  get  left 
this  day,  when  Bugs  jumped  to  his  feet  and 
sang  out :  ' '  Stop  the  boat !  Stop  the  boat !  !" 

"By  ginger,"  says  Doc.  "he has  another 
one  on." 

"No,"  replied  Bugs.  "I  haven't  got  a 
trout  on  this  time  ;  but  I  wish  that  half-pound 
weight  was  off,  I'd  show  you  some  fun." 

' '  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"I  mean  that  I  have  a  bass  on  here.  I 
don't  know  much  about  togue,  but  I  know 
when  a  bass  telegraphs  me  that  he's  coming, 
I  have  met  him  before." 

Sure  enough  there  was  a  nice  one  on  the 
hook,  but  the  weight  hanging  to  his  jaw  did 
not  allow  His  Royal  Highness  to  perform  any 
of  his  favorite  acrobatic  tricks,  and  he  was 


128  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

too  firmly  hooked  to  get  away,  but  he  man- 
aged to  kick  up  considerable  of  a  muss  be- 
fore he  was  laid  in  the  fish  well. 

The  excitement  incidental  to  this,  had  died 
away,  and  the  fishermen  had  commenced  to 
shift  uneasily  in  their  chairs,  despite  the 
round  of  fun  and  jollity  that  was  being  ban- 
tered back  and  forth.  Finally  the  doctor 
said : 

"Say,  this  is  getting  monotonous,  I'll  put 
up  a  stake,  the  first  man  who  gets  a  trout, 
wins  this  half  dollar,  and  we'll  have  it  en- 
graved with  its  weight." 

Suddenly  Uncle  Lon  was  observed  to 
straighten  up  in  his  chair,  and  his  reel  to 
sing.  It  was  nip  and  tuck,  for  the  old  gen- 
tleman's wind  was  short,  and  the  fish  was 
strong ;  twenty  feet  of  line  would  come  in, 
only  to  be  run  out  by  the  struggles  of  the 
exasperated  fish,  while  the  old  man  would 
stop  to  get  his  breath  and  commence  again. 

"Let  me  play  him  for  you,  Uncle  Lon," 
says  Doc. 

"Not — much, — I'm  going — to  show — that 
bug-hunter — how  to — catch — a  fish." 

And  he  did,  for  he  fought  it  out  and  brought 
to  net  a  fine  trout  weighing  7f  pounds.  But 


LAKE    TROUT   FISHING.  129 

it  took  a  solid  dose  of  ' '  restorative  "  to  get 
him  back  so  he  could  talk. 

"There  Bugs,"  says  he,  "that's  the  sort  of 
fish  we  catch,  we  don't  pull  in  minnows,"  and 
the  old  man  was  heard  to  murmur  in  his  sleep 
that  night :  "Don't  catch  minnows." 

He  got  the  medal,  and  it  was  preserved, 
and  often  proudly  exhibited  in  a  velvet  lined 
box,  as  long  as  the  old  man  lived. 

It  was  not  long,  and  that  was  probably  the 
last  fish  that  the  old  man  ever  caught. 

Let  us  hope  that  in  those  happy  hunting 
grounds,  where  he  now  is,  that  his  eyes  are 
clear  to  bait  his  hook,  and  that  the  fish  are 
plenty  and  not  minnows,  in  the  ghostly  streams 
of  the  land  of  the  hereafter.  Who  knows  ? 
And  it  is  a  question  that  we  would  all  like 
to  have  answered. 


THE  NATURALIST  IN  THE 
WHITE  MOUNTAINS. 


MT.    KEAttSAKGE. 


THE    NATURALIST    IN   THE    WHITE 
MOUNTAINS. 


W  ^ne  nex^  t^P  you  make  next 
summer  will  be  to  the  Crawford 
Notch.  Is  that  all  settled?  I 
shall  be  disappointed  if  you  do  not  come, 
and  so  will  you,  for  I  can  show  you  birds 
galore,  and  you  will  be  well  repaid  for  the 
trip.  Maybe  we'll  get  a  bear." 

These  were  the  last  words  of  my  friend,  J. 
Waldo  Nash,  artist  and  naturalist,  as  I  bade 
him  goodbye,  on  the  train  north,  after  a  very 
pleasant  winter's  companionship  in  the  city. 
So  I  went. 

It  was  my  object  to  study  bird  life  on  the 
higher  altitudes,  and  I  had  for  a  week  been 
gradually  approaching  North  Conway,  by 
way  of  Lake  Winnepesaukee  and  the  Ossipee 
Range.  I  had  never  been  here  before,  al- 
though I  had  been  in  higher  latitudes,  and  I 
was  much  interested  by  what  I  had  seen  so 
far  in  niy  travels. 


134      LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

"I  never  knew  you  to  go  back  on  your 
word,  old  man,"  greeted  me  as  I  stepped  off 
the  train  one  night,  and  Waldo  had  me  by 
the  hand.  "If  we  don't  make  these  old 
mountains  howl  within  the  next  fortnight,  it 
will  be  because  Miss  Echo  has  got  drowned." 

"  Hold  on,  now,  don't  be  introducing  me 
to  any  dissolute  females.  I  am  a  poor  weak 
naturalist,  and  I  know  more  about  catching 
hornpouts  than  I  do  about  your  misses. 
I've  no  use  for  them." 

"Well,"  says  Waldo,  "you  will  get  along 
all  right  with  Miss  Echo,  for  she  always 
agrees  with  you,  but  you  never  see  her. 
Come  on." 

So  I  found  myself  ensconsed  in  a  nice 
chamber,  in  a  house  by  the  waters  of  Kear- 
sarge  brook,  which  carried  the  waters  into 
the  Saco,  while  the  mist  crowned  peaks  of 
the  Moat  Mountains  looked  into  my  windows 
in  the  morning,  and  called  me  from  my  bed 
of  ease. 

From  those  magic  portals  were  seen  the 
magnificent  pinnacles  of  Cathedral  Rocks  and 
the  horse  and  sleigh  of  White  Horse  Ledge. 
Never  changing,  yet  ever  new ;  never  end- 
ing, yet  ever  beautiful,  who  would  not  be  an 


IN   THE    WHITE   MOUNTAINS.  135 

artist,  especially  if  he  be  a  naturalist,  to  live 
in  the  midst  of  these  magnificent  monuments 
of  nature's  handiwork. 

Mt.  Kearsarge,  or  Pequawket,  as  it  is  some- 
times called,  was  our  first  day's  work,  and 
we  hastened  our  steps  to  reach  its  foot,  for 
we  knew  it  was  a  hard  climb  before  we  con- 
quered 3,200  feet  of  rocks,  thrusting  their 
heads  into  the  clouds. 

"Hold  on  a  minute,"  Waldo  says,  "let  me 
show  you  something  pretty,"  and  he  lifts  a 
branch  of  a  hemlock  growing  on  a  bank  by 
the  edge  of  the  brook,  and  there  was  the 
oven-like  nest  of  the  black  and  white  creeper 
hidden  in  the  moss. 

It  was  loosely  constructed  of  pine  needles 
and  dead  leaves,  and  was  lined  with  shreds 
of  birch  bark  and  horse  hair,  against  which 
reposed  the  four  delicately  dotted  eggs.  The 
green,  mossy,  fern  dressed  bank,  laved  by  the 
waters  of  the  brook,  and  crowned  by  a  gray 
and  moss  grown  fence,  formed  a  picture  long 
to  be  remembered. 

The  way  led  along  the  course  of  the  brook, 
through  the  intervale  ;  and  wild  strawberries, 
dainty  flowers,  and  above  all,  the  everchang- 
ing  scenery  beguiled  the  footsteps  to  the 


136  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

detriment  of  speed  ;  it  was  almost  impossible 
to  tear  ones  eyes  away. 

At  Sunset  Hill,  the  bridle  path  began,  and 
we  were  lushing  down  the  slope  toward  the 
open  field,  when  as  I  was  leaping  over  a 
patch  of  low  blueberry  bushes,  to  keep  my 
feet  from  getting  tangled,  and  throwing  one. 
headlong,  a  little  bird  flushed  from  between 
my  feet,  and  was  gone,  but  not  so  quickly 
that  I  did  not  recognize  the  little  Junco,  and 
as  I  had  never  seen  its  nest,  I  stopped  in- 
stanter. 

Forgotten  was  Mt.  Kearsarge,  forgotten 
the  rapidly  passing  hours,  but  I  searched  for 
a  long  time,  before  I  discovered  it,  curiously 
hidden  in  the  bushes.  Another  of  nature's 
gems,  set  in  emerald  green,  its  brown  cup  of 
fine  grass  and  pine  needles,  effectively 
blended  with  the  dry  aftermath,  concealed  it 
till  the  eye  caught  the  glint  of  the  sun  on  the 
surface  of  the  five  little  eggs.  It  was  more 
neatly  and  compactly  built  than  the  creepers 
but  no  more  dainty. 

Kearsarge  has  features  of  its  own.  One  is 
the  Kearsarge  Brook,  a  sparkling  stream  of 
water,  the  source  of  which  is  the  famous 
Kearsarge  Mountains,  rising  among  the  clouds 


IN    THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  137 

from  many  springs  ever  uniting  to  form 
larger  streams,  falling  now  over  precipices, 
forming,  as  it  were,  a  bridal  veil  for  some 
bride  of  Old  Kearsarge,  now  tumbling  over 
rocks  and  roots  in  a  mad  and  merry  whirl 
and  rush,  as  if  each  particle  were  trying  to 
see  which  would  reach  the  base  soonest,  then 
flowing  quietly  along  under  old  and  forgotten 
bridges,  so  quietly  that  one  would  hardly 
think  that  these  were  the  same  waters  that 
were  so  boisterous  a  short  time  before.  Now 
starting  up  again  as  if  urgent  business  called 
it  along  in  haste,  and  anon,  pausing  in  some 
cool  and  quiet  pool  where  the  speckled 
beauties  bask  and  sport.  Now  flowing  along 
under  mighty  maple  trees  in  whose  sombre 
shade  the  quiet  hum  of  insect  life  and  twitter 
of  birds  carry  one  far  beyond  the  toil  and 
cares  of  life.  Now  emerging  again  into  the 
sunlight,  flowing  through  pasture  and 
meadow,  past  happy  homes,  through  groves 
where  people  worn  with  the  cares  of  a  life 
in  the  city  are  fast  forgetting  those  cares 
and  taking  on  new  life.  Lying  quietly  in 
some  smooth  and  tranquil  pond,  now  tumb- 
ling over  some  dam  or  philanthropically 
turning  some  wheel,  gliding  along  over 


138      LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

polished  ledges ;  again  running  along  over 
rounded  pebbles,  under  dark  pines,  ever 
changing,  never  found  twice  alike.  Such  is 
the  beautiful  Kearsarge  brook  and  offers 
enjoyment  to  all,  whether  they  carry  a  rod 
and  line,  or  an  artists'  outfit,  or  whether 
they  are  out  for  an  hour's  rest.  A  trip  up 
this  brook  and  its  tributaries  offers  some  of 
the  most  beautiful  scenes  ever  put  on  canvas, 
and  some  of  these  scenes  are  very  easy  to 
reach.  One  looking  up  from  the  mill  pond 
above  the  Chase  shops  is  a  fine  scene,  and  a 
few  rods  farther  up  is  another  of  a  little 
different  character. 

East  of  Kearsarge  and  beginning  to  rise,  as 
it  were,  out  of  the  brook  is  Sunset  Hill, 
formerly  known  as  Birch  Hill ,  which  offers 
some  fine  views  of  the  surrounding  country 
and  from  which  the  glories  of  a  mountain 
sunset  can  be  seen  perfectly,  and  here  also 
can  be  seen  the  Moat  Mt.,  White  Horse  and 
Cathedral  Ledges  in  bold  relief  against  the 
Western  sky,  and  further  north  old  Wash- 
ington, which,  at  this  distance,  is  toned  down 
into  soft  and  hazy  colors.  Here  one  can  get 
the  smell  of  the  fir  balsam  and  pine,  or  dream 
in  the  shade  of  some  mighty  oak.  And  here 


IN   THE   WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  139 

can  be  seen  the  bleached  and  whitened 
skeletons  of  old  forest  trees,  and  picturesque 
old  birches  from  which  the  former  name  was 
taken. 

The  trip  on  Kearsarge  Mt.  can  be  very 
easily  made  from  Kearsarge  village  and 
should  not  be  missed  by  any  one. 

The  bridle  path  wound  around  trees  and 
rocks,  with  numerous  openings,  whence  the 
valley  below  could  be  seen,  and  many  were 
the  interruptions  which  lured  us  from  our 
path.  Here  were  the  beautiful  flowers  of 
the  Linnea  borealis,  and  at  the  next  turn  it 
was  some  bird  which  hopped  out  of  the  bushes 
and  as  suddenly  flitted  out  of  sight. 

About  one-fourth  of  the  way  up,  we  heard 
the  sound  of  falling  water,  and  knowing  that 
some  of  the  choicest  bits  of  mountain 
scenery  were  to  be  found  in  the  cascades, 
we  left  the  trail  and  were  well  repaid  for  the 
moment's  scramble.  A  series  of  little  falls, 
formed  by  the  descent  of  the  little  brook, 
swollen  by  the  rains  of  the  night  before, 
here  leaped  and  swirled  as  they  tumbled 
down  over  the  mossy  rocks,  now  disappear- 
ing beneath  the  fallen  boulders,  and  gurgling, 
struggling  and  grumbling  as  they  worked 


140  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

their  way  through  hidden  channels  out, 
once  more,  into  the  light  of  day,  when  with 
a  flash  and  spatter  it  plunged  over  a  little 
cliff,  and  splashed  into  a  crystal  pool  below, 
then  flowed  calmly  a  little  way  like  liquid 
silver,  framed  by  banks  o'erhung  with  a 
tangled  maze  of  delicate  green,  a  mass  of 
mossy,  dripping,  filmy,  feathery  fern. 
These  cascades  did  not  seem  to  be  well 
known,  and  they  are  not  easily  accessible, 
except  by  a  sharp  scramble,  but  they  will 
richly  repay  for  labor  expended. 

On  these  banks,  as  we  climbed  over  and 
leaped  across  on  the  mossy  and  water-worn 
rocks,  we  started  the  Redstart,  the  Chestnut- 
sided  Warbler,  the  Red-eyed  Vireo  and  the 
Olive-backed  Thrush,  hiding  among  the 
bushes  and  the  fern-grown  banks. 

We  followed  the  course  of  the  brook  until 
we  found  that  it  would  cariy  us  away  from 
our  goal,  when  we  turned  again  toward  the 
bridle  path. 

We  lunched  on  Prospect  Ledge,  well 
named,  for  here  is  afforded  a  fine  prospect  of 
this  section  of  the  Saco  Valley. 

Leaving  here,  we  find  bird  life  growing 
very  scant,  but  see  the  Junco  and  White- 


IN   THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  141 

throated  Sparrow  apparently  breeding  at  a 
height  of  2,000  feet. 

Speaking  of  this  latter  bird,  it  is  here  in 
these  mountains  that  I  heard  its  voice  at  its 
greatest  perfection,  at  least  two  more  notes 
being  added  to  its  song  as  heard  in  the  low- 
lands. It  warbles  at  intervals  during  the 
entire  day,  calling  back  and  forth  with  its 
companions ;  and  later  on ,  as  I  lay  in  my 
blankets  on  the  slopes  of  Mount  Willey,  in 
the  darkness  of  the  night,  and  surrounded  by 
the  sombre  depths  of  the  spruce  forest,  lit 
only  by  the  glimmering  stars,  I  heard  it 
again,  like  a  voice  of  hope  calling  from  the 
depths  of  gloomy  despair,  and  enlivening  the 
solitude  with  its  cheery  notes.  And  as  the 
first  rays  of  the  rising  sun  adorned  the  east 
he,  first  of  all,  lifted  up  his  voice  in  gladness 
and  praise. 

Not  for  all  the  world  could  I,  since  that 
glorious  day,  harm  one  of  those  little  creat- 
ures, or  take  its  nest.  I  would  feel  as  if  I 
had  killed  or  robbed  my  own  brother. 

But  I  have  digressed,  both  from  my  path 
and  my  story.  We  are  now  nearly  to  timber 
line,  and  soon  have  passed  out  where  the 
only  vegetation  is  low  bushes,  a  few  stunted 


142  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

evergreens,  twisted  and  gnarled  by  the  force 
of  the  winds  which  sweep  over  the  summit, 
and  the  low,  creeping  mountain  cranberry 
(uva  ursi),  which  covers  the  soil  wherever 
any  is  found  to  cover  the  rocks.  A  few 
more  hundred  feet  and  we  step  upon  the  tops 
It  has  been  a  hard  climb,  but  the  view  is 
worthy  of  the  labor. 

We  can  follow  the  course  of  the  Saco  river 
from  where  it  emerges  from  the  Notch  until 
it  disappears  in  the  distant  fields  of  Maine. 
Below  us  are  the  villages  spread  out  in  mi- 
nute panorama,  the  buildings  looking  like 
toy-houses,  and  the  people  indistinguishable 
except  by  the  aid  of  the  glasses. 

To  the  south,  on  either  side  of  the  valley, 
the  two  ranges  show  their  length ;  to  the  east 
the  hills  of  Maine  are  nearly  flattened  into 
the  plain,  though  near  by  they  are  consider- 
able eminences,  and  the  view  is  unbroken  to 
the  horizon,  with  river,  lake  and  field  varying 
the  picture  ;  while  to  the  north  are  the  nion- 
archs  of  the  range,  too  numerous  to  mention, 
culminated  by  Washington,  now  for  weeks 
cloud-capped,  and  on  whose  sides  the  patches 
of  snow  and  ice  are  plainly  discernible. 


IN    THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  143 

As  we  stand  on  the  northern  span  we  see 
a  shower  gathering  about  Mount  Washington, 
and  sweeping  down  the  notch.  Washington 
is  hidden  from  view,  and  then  follows  Mun- 
roe ;  Willey  and  Webster  disappear,  and  the 
bank  of  fog,  swirling  and  swaying  with  the 
force  of  the  wind,  draws  nearer  and  nearer. 

In  the  midst  of  it  all,  in  the  gap  between 
Bartlett  and  Kearsarge,  high  in  the  air,  and 
in  the  very  path  of  the  wind,  soars  a  large 
hawk.  He  sways  back  and  forward,  ever 
and  anon  coming  to  a  standstill,  facing  and 
in  the  very  teeth  of  the  gale,  and  hovering 
there  without  the  slightest  discernible  motion, 
braving  and  conquering  the  very  power  of 
the  wind,  a  grand  triumph  of  skill  and  power. 
It  was  a  majestic  sight. 

The  wind  is  so  strong  that  we  are  glad  to 
get  under  the  lee  of  a  little  house  which 
crowns  the  summit,  and  which  is  firmly  bound 
to  the  rock  with  iron  rods. 

After  plucking  a  few  flowers  of  the  bear- 
berry  as  mementoes  for  absent  friends,  we 
strike  down  the  side  of  the  mountain,  avoid- 
ing the  paths,  and  soon  are  crashing  our  way 
through  the  foliage,  below  timber  line. 


10 


144  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

This  is  the  way  to  really  enjoy  mountain 
scenery.  If  we  cling  to  the  regular  paths 
with  a  guide  to  explain  the  points  of  interest, 
we  shall  see  beautiful  views,  we  shall  inhale 
the  glorious  mountain  air,  but  we  shall  miss 
the  unlocked  for  bits  of  beauty,  in  the  spots 
frequented  only  by  the  wild  animals,  and  the 
delightful  uncertainty  of  where  we  shall  bring 
up.  Perhaps  we  shall  easily  come  to  a  path 
winding  around  the  mountain  side,  which 
shall  lead  us  to  civilization,  and  perhaps  to 
an  inaccessible  cliff,  whose  overhanging  brow 
warns  us  that  we  must  either  retreat,  to  search 
for  a  safer  descent,  or  compel  us  to  make  a 
long  detour  to  reach  the  bottom. 

The  next  morning,  my  companion,  the 
photographer  of  the  expedition,  Wm.  H. 
Wilson  of  Boston,  having  arrived  on  the 
scene,  we  packed  our  knapsacks,  put  up  our 
black-fly  killer  and  boarded  our  train  for 
farther  up  the  notch. 

It  was  our  original  intention  to  have 
ascended  the  valley  of  Dead  or  Mt.  Wash- 
ington River,  and  make  the  ascent  of  the 
Monarch  of  the  Presidential  range  from  that 
side,  via  the  river  bed.  But  we  found  that 
several  parties  had  been  through  there  with 


IN    THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  145 

camera  and  rod,  and  as  our  idea  was  to  get 
some  pictures  where  that  everlasting 
Appalachian  Mountain  Club  had  not  been, 
we  turned  the  other  way. 

By  the  way,  I  am  not  paid  to  blow  my 
bugle  for  the  Appalachian  Mountain  Club, 
but  I  want  to  thank  them  right  here  for  their 
excellent  habit  of  piling  up  monuments  of 
rocks  to  point  out  vague  paths  on  the  moun- 
tain sides ;  they  saved  me  some  hard 
climbing,  this  year.  Long  may  they  pile 
rocks  to  guide  the  wandering  footsteps  of 
those  who  reap  the  fruits  of  others'  sowing. 

But  I  need  some  monuments  to  keep  me 
on  the  straight  track. 

Various  incidents  turned  affairs  so  that  we 
got  fired  off  the  train  at  Avalanche  Station, 
near  the  old  Willey  House,  the  scene  of  the 
well-known  tragedy. 

We  stood  for  a  moment  watching  the  tail 
end  of  the  train  as  it  sped  up  the  track 
toward  the  end  where  it  closes  in. 

Below  us  was  the  same  old  Saco  River  of 
numerous  turnings  and  windings,  and  beyond 
it  Mt.  Webster  reared  its  old  bald  head 
against  the  sky. 


146      LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

We  looked  at  Mts.  Willard  and  Willey 
and  groaned  at  the  steep  hill  which  lay  be- 
fore us,  and  I  inwardly  wept  as  I  thought  of 
the  hard-tack  and  salt  pork  in  my  knapsack, 
and  my  mouth  watered  for  the  flesh  pots  of 
civilized  life,  and  I  wanted  to  go  back. 
But  while  we  groaned,  we  strapped  on  our 
packs,  picked  up  our  guns,  and  with  a  na- 
tive to  put  us  on  the  right  track,  started  up 
the  slope. 

We  soon  were  on  our  proper  path,  and 
bade  our  guide  a  long,  lingering  farewell ; 
more  sad,  because  he  was  the  first  man  whom 
I  had  struck  in  New  Hampshire  who  would 
not  take  a  "tip"  for  service  rendered,  and  I 
feared  he  would  not  live  long, — he  was  too 
delicate  for  that  gall-bracing  climate.  I 
found  his  mate  when  I  came  back.  God 
bless  them  !  They  restored  my  faith  in  hu- 
manity. I  had  begun  to  think  that  I  was 
only  the  creature  of  unfortunate  circum- 
stances doomed  to  unlock  my  pocket,  for  the 
benefit  of  humanity.  But  the  inhabitants 
must  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines,  and  the 
rich  (  ?)  tourist  is  game  to  be  bled. 

We  tramped  along  the  top  of  the  ridge 
which  separates  the  valley  of  the  Saco  from 


IN   THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  147 

that  of  the  Pemigewasset,  until  the  afternoon 
was  well  on  the  downward  track,  and  as  a 
slight  rain  had  set  in  we  began  to  think  of 
camp. 

The  great  desiderata  of  camp  are  wood  and 
water.  We  had  enough  of  both,  such  as 
they  were,  but  they  were  both  decidedly  in- 
convenient. The  wood  was  green,  and  the 
water  in  too  small  drops  to  be  anything  but 
wet,  so  we  turned  southwest  down  the  slope 
till  we  struck  the  edge  of  a  logger's  tract, 
from  the  like  of  which  to  see  again,  may  the 
saints  deliver  me.  Big  logs  and  small  logs, 
tree-tops  piled  cross-ways,  end- ways,  and  all 
other  ways,  tough  when  we  wanted  to  break 
them,  and  frail  and  rotten  when  we  wanted 
to  climb  upon  them,  but  we  got  over  at  last. 
(O  my  !  but  this  was  play  to  what  we  got 
later  on.) 

Here  we  separated  to  find  the  way  out,  or 
rather  in,  for  we  did  not  want  to  go  out,  and 
I  was  down  in  the  lowland  ankle-deep  in 
water,  mud  and  moss,  hunting  for  the  brook, 
when  a  shot  from  Nash's  gun,  followed  by  a 
cry  from  a  bird  which  I  did  not  recognize, 
and  soon  another  shot,  betokened  something 
of  value.  I  got  back  to  my  pack,  which  I 


148  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

had  gladly  laid  down  while  I  was  anathe- 
matizing the  weather  and  the  fates  which 
brought  me  here,  and  hunting  for  water,  of 
which  we  apparently  had  too  much  already, 
for  the  whole  side  of  the  mountain  was  one 
vast  sponge. 

We  found  Nash  looking  at  a  hole  in  the 
side  of  a  tree,  from  which  emanated  a  suc- 
cession of  cries,  which  sounded  like  a  troop 
of  angry  cats.  He  held  in  his  hand  a  pair  of 
woodpeckers,  which  I  recognized  as  the  Arc- 
tic 3-toed  variety,  and  as  I  had  never  before 
seen  the  nest  of  this  bird,  I  was  correspond- 
ingly elated. 

The  hole  was  excavated  from  the  solid 
green  wood  of  a  tree  ten  inches  in  diameter, 
about  twenty  feet  from  the  ground. 

At  this  date,  June  27,  1890,  the  eggs  had 
hatched,  and  this  fact  was  made  evident  to 
everyone  in  the  vicinity,  by  the  vociferous 
cries  which  issued  from  the  cavity. 

The  entrance  was  one  and  a  half  inches  in 
diameter,  and  the  hole  was  ten  inches  deep, 
with  a  width  of  tive  inches  and  with  one  and 
a  half  inches  of  wood  between  it  and  the  out- 
side. The  nest  was  composed  of  chips  and 
moss. 


IN    THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 


149 


The  stomachs  of  the  young  birds  contained 
larvae  of  pine  borers  and  other  remains  of 
insects,  mingled  with  bits  of  coarse  gravel. 
The  generative  organs  were  well  marked, 
all  three  of  the  birds,  which  made  up  the 
complement,  being  males.  The  color  of  the 
iris  was  reddish-brown. 

The  most  striking  peculiarity  however, 
was  a  curious  white,  gristly  process  on  either 
side  of  the  lower  mandible  at  the  base  of  the 
bill,  as  shown  in  the  following  engraving. 


a.  Side,  bill  of  adult. 

b.  Under  side,  bill  of  adult. 

c.  Under  side,  bill  of  young. 

BILL    OF   PICOIDES    ARCTIC  US. 

This  peculiar  formation  has  apparently 
never  been  noticed  before,  at  least  I  can  find 
no  record  of  it. 


150      LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

William  Brewster,  in  his  "Description  of 
First  Plumages,"  makes  no  mention  of  find- 
ing it  on  a  skin  collected  July  31,  although 
it  is  possible  that  it  might  shrink  away  in 
drying,  or  might  disappear  before  that  stage 
of  development,  as  his  specimen  was  four 
weeks  older  than  than  mine.  Unfortunately 
my  specimens  were  not  preserved,  for  we 
were  not  prepared  for  alcholic  specimens, 
but  I  have^  a  photograph  of  the  birds  taken 
while  alive,  that  shows  the  formation  very 
well. 

In  May,  1892,  William  Brewster  made 
observations  on  a  brood  of  young  Flickers 
(Colaptes  auratus)  and  observed  the  same 
conformation,  an  account  of  which  was  soon 
after  published  in  The  Auk. 

In  this  very  excellent  record  of  his  obser- 
vations, he  advances  the  theory  that  the 
membrane  aided  the  parents  in  placing  the 
food  in  the  mouths  of  the  young  birds. 

Having  paid  full  attention  to  this  nest,  we 
again  turned  our  footsteps  down  the  hill,  and 
soon  came  across  Ripley's  Brook,  which 
empties  into  the  Saco  River,  near  where  we 
entered  the  woods. 


IN   THE   WHITE   MOUNTAINS.  151 

It  was  our  opinion,  which  was  later  con- 
firmed, that  this  brook  had  its  rise  on  the 
ridge  which  separates  the  two  valleys,  and  so 
we  turned  our  steps  toward  its  head-waters. 

This  little  valley,  or  swampy  run,  is  filled 
with  a  luxuriant  growth  of  underbrush  and 
small  growth,  the  high  spruce  having  been 
cut  off  by  the  loggers. 

At  5  P.  M.  we  concluded  that  we  had  done 
about  as  much  as  was  desirable  for  that  day, 
and  as  we  had  found  dry  wood,  and  water  in 
plenty,  and  saw  no  immediate  prospect  of 
finding  dry  land,  we  threw  off  our  packs  and 
concluded  to  lay  up  for  the  night. 

We  had  no  tent  with  us,  for  we  knew  that 
it  would  be  inadvisable  to  encumber  ourselves 
with  camp  equipage,  and  we  were  prepared 
to  meet  any  emergency  with  equanimity.  In 
fact,  we  found  that  it  would  be  impossible  to 
carry  any  extra  weight,  for  sometimes,  in 
spite  of  the  light  load  we  carried,  (only  45 
pounds,  including  guns,  being  allowed  to 
each  man) ,  we  found  that  we  could  not  travel 
much  over  a  mile  an  hour. 

The  ground  was  wet  and  swampy,  the 
dead  tree  trunks  had  fallen  in  every  direction, 
and  it  was  a  continuous  drag  all  the  time. 


152  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

Hence  we  knew  that  we  must  make  the  best 
of  the  goods  that  nature  had  strewn  around 
us. 

Fortunately,  a  substitute  for  canvas,  is 
found  in  this  locality,  and  the  bark  of  the 
white  birch,  which  easily,  at  this  time  of  the 
year,  peels  off  in  large  sheets,  makes  a  fine 
roof,  impenetrable  to  the  most  driving  rain, 
when  properly  shingled  on  to  roof-poles. 

The  weather  had  settled  down  to  a  light, 
drizzling  rain,  so  while  one  peeled  birch  bark 
for  a  cover,  the  other  two  gathered  poles  for 
a  bed,  twigs  for  a  mattress,  and  wood  for  a 
fire,  which  was  soon  blazing  merrily  before 
the  camp,  and  throwing  its  sparks  up  into 
the  darkness,  which  had  by  this  time  gathered 
close  around  us. 

What  a  difference  the  camp-fire  makes  ;  a 
few  moments  before  we  were  silently  digging 
away,  pulling  and  hauling  at  logs  and  bark, 
and  anathematizing  the  fates  which  had  got 
us  into  such  a  scrape,  and  now  we  were 
busily  and  happily  engaged  in  preparing 
supper,  and  laughing  and  chatting  over  the 
pleasure  and  trials  of  the  day. 

The  rain  was  falling  fast,  but  what  did  we 
care,  we  had  a  camp-fire,  built  of  great  logs, 


IN    THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  153 

as  large  as  a  man  could  lift,  and  the  two 
great  back  logs  threw  the  heat  of  the  fire 
into  our  shelter,  and  reflected  by  the  roof, 
made  it  almost  uncomfortably  warm,  and 
perfectly  dry. 

By  the  way,  how  few  men,  even  those  who 
go  camping,  know  how  to  properly  build  a 
camp  fire.  It  is  an  old  saying  that  it  takes 
"either  a  wise  man  or  a  fool  to  kindle  a  fire," 
but  the  latter  has  no  show  at  all,  when  it 
comes  to  properly  setting  up  a  camp-fire  on 
a  stormy  night. 

Roll  a  large  log  on  top  of  another,  holding 
it  in  place  by  stakes.  If  you  have  no  large 
logs,  build  a  screen  of  smaller  ones,  at  least 
18  inches  thick,  and  3  feet  high.  Kindle 
your  fire  in  front  of  that,  and  when  you  have 
got  some  live  coals,  rake  them  to  one  side  for 
a  cooking  fire,  and  if  you  are  not  comfortable 
do  not  try  camp  life,  stay  at  home  where  you 
can  have  steam  heat  and  hair  mattresses.  But 
if  you  want  to  breathe  pure  air,  before  it  has 
been  used  by  an  unwashed  horde,  give  over 
your  daintiness,  and  go  camping. 

Now  the  readers  will  perhaps  remember 
that  friend  Nash  mentioned  bears.  Now  the 
bear  is  a  tender  point  to  a  naturalist,  and  I 


154      LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

must  confess  that  I  have  long  hugged  to  my 
bosom,  a  cherished  idea  that  I  shall  some  day 
shoot  at  a  bear.  I  talked  bear  to  every  man  I 
met,  until  the  subject  was  worn  bare,  but  I 
did  not  see  one,  I  heard  some  good  bear- 
stories,  however,  and  I  cannot  refrain  from 
relating  one,  which  seems  to  illustrate  the 
grim  humor  of  these  old  mountaineers. 

It  seems  that  an  old  hunter  had  brought 
some  bear-scalps  to  the  selectmen  of  the  town 
to  lay  claim  to  the  state  bounty,  which  is 
double  the  sum  paid  in  the  state  of  Maine. 
The  town  officials  had  shown  some  doubt  as 
to  the  place  of  capture  of  the  animals,  and 
insinuated  that  they  were  shot  in  Maine,  and 
brought  over  into  New  Hampshire  for  the 
large  bounty.  This  the  old  hunter  combatted 
very  strenuously,  and  was  highly  indignant 
that  he  should  be  accused  of  fraud. 

One  morning,  the  worthy  chairman  of  the 
board  of  town  fathers,  went  out  to  feed  his 
cattle,  and  hearing  a  great  noise  up  the  street 
went  out  into  the  roadway  to  investigate. 
Soon  the  noise  grew  louder,  and  a  bear, 
black  with  sweat  appeared,  driven  by  a  pack 
of  dogs,  and  followed  by  the  old  hunter  and 
his  strapping  family  of  boys,  rifle  in  hand. 


IN   THE    WHITE   MOUNTAINS.  155 

They  drove  the  bear  down,  rounded  him 
up  in  the  yard,  and  shot  him. 

"There,  confound  you  !"  says  the  hunter, 
<*  was  that  bear  shot  in  New  Hampshire?" 

They  had  hunted  out  the  bear  and  driven 
him  several  miles  to  practically  demonstrate 
the  fact  of  his  words,  to  the  authorities. 

But  I  have  got  off  my  reservation. 

After  supper  we  made  up  our  notes  for  the 
day,  put  our  firearms  in  order  and  rolled  up 
in  our  blankets. 

Most  people  have  an  idea,  that  all  birds 
are  quiet  during  the  night,  except  the  owls 
and  whip-poor-wills,  but  there  is  one  excep- 
tion to  the  rule  at  least,  and  I  made  his  ac- 
quaintance here. 

The  White-throated  Sparrows  are  very 
plentiful  in  these  high  altitudes,  and  their 
sweet  voices  can  be  heard  calling  to  each 
other  all  the  day  long ;  and  when  I  awoke 
after  midnight,  when  the  camp-fire  had  gone 
down,  and,  the  clouds  having  passed  on,  the 
stars  shone  down  through  the  thin  branches, 
I  heard  the  voice  of  one  of  them  calling  from 
far  up  the  mountain  side  ;  and  again,  when 
the  sun  put  up  its  first  rosy  shaft  of  light  in 


156  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

the  east,  they  first  of  all  woke  the  echoes  and 
welcomed  the  coming  day. 

The  morning  of  June  28th  broke  bright 
and  fair,  and  we  were  up  betimes,  drying  our 
clothing  and  preparing  for  the  day's  tramp. 

What  a  task  it  is  to  get  things  straightened 
out  after  a  wet  day  in  the  woods.  Shoes  are 
hard,  clothes  are  wet,  guns  are  dirty  and 
often  rusty,  but  patience  brings  things  out  all 
right  in  the  end,  and  the  bright  sun  gave 
token  of  a  more  pleasant  day  than  the  pre- 
ceding, and  work  went  off  easier,  with 
brighter  prospects  ahead. 

We  got  away  early,  and  struck  up  the 
lumber  road  for  a  few  rods,  to  the  head  of  the 
brook,  and  then  headed  for  the  top  of  the 
divide. 

The  axe  of  the  lumberman  had  probably 
never  been  struck  in  here,  and  travelling  was 
a  little  easier,  through  the  underbrush  made 
it  rather  hard  in  places. 

When,  at  last,  we  reached  the  top,  the 
slope  was  so  gradual  that  it  was  impossible 
to  get  any  observation  of  the  surrounding 
country  over  the  tree  tops,  and  so  we  started 
due  west  as  a  venture.  We  soon  heard  the 
noise  of  running  water  and  found  that  it  was 


IN    THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  157 

running  in  the  right  direction  to  bring  it  fin- 
ally into  the  Pemigewasset  River,  so  we  fol- 
lowed its  course. 

We  had  gone  about  two  miles  and  the 
brook  had  become  considerably  increased  in 
size,  while  the  banks  showed  that  a  consider- 
able body  of  water  flowed  through  here  at 
times. 

Suddenly  Waldo,  who  was  ahead,  sang 
out  : 

"Hold  on,  boys,  there  are  trout  here,  we 
must  have  some  for  supper." 

I  had  never  caught  trout  from  a  mountain 
stream,  and  I  was  immediately  interested. 

Now  stop  a  minute,  I  want  to  dream  over 
that  a  little. 

There  are  two  events  in  a  man's  life,  which 
he  never  forgets.  The  time  when  he  smokes 
his  first  cigar,  and  when  he  catches  his  first 
trout.  There  is  a  world  of  pleasure  and 
anxiety  in  both,  so  I  fill  my  pipe  and  think, — 
about  the  latter  event. 

Soon  the  light  fades  and  I  am  off  and  away. 
The  odor  of  spruce  and  fir,  mingled  with  that 
of  the  fragrant  weed,  and  the  fresh  cool 
mountain  air  sweeps  across  my  brow.  Tall 
trees  surround  me,  and  far  away  sounds  the 


158      LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

rush  of  falling  waters  as  they  hurry  away 
toward  the  intervale  a  thousand  feet  below. 

A  log  crosses  the  stream  and  the  waters, 
dammed  by  its  corse,  flow  over  it  to  the  little 
pool  below.  Knapsack  and  gun  are  strapped 
to  my  back,  and  I  am  poised  on  the  slippery 
rock,  with  line  just  dropping  into  the  pool. 
No  split  bamboo,  with  supple  strength,  no 
silken  line  with  power  within  its  dainty  fibres  ; 
no  gaudy  fly  to  deceive  the  watchful  eye  that 
I  think  lies  behind  that  mossy  log.  Nothing 
but  an  alder  pole  cut  in  yonder  thicket,  a 
hook  and  line  fished  from  the  depths  of  my 
ditty-bag,  (the  last  time  it  was  used  it  caught 
minnows  in  one  of  Plymouth's  wood-fringed 
ponds) ,  a  worm  impaled  on  the  cruel  barb. 

As  the  dainty  morsel  touches  the  water, 
there  is  a  flash,  a  swirl  and  over  the  log  comes 
the  spotted  beauty.  My  first  trout,  an  even 
foot  long.  Worthy  to  have  tested  the  skill 
of  Danforth  himself,  and  to  have  been  played 
on  one  of  Chubbs  best  with  gold  mountings. 

The  vision  is  gone  and  once  more  I  sit  in 
my  den.  Instead  of  the  tall  dark  spruce 
trunks,  are  rows  of  books,  and  the  fisherman 
is  only  a  poor  scribbler  resting  from  the  la- 
bors of  the  day. 


IN    THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  159 

Well  !  well !  half  the  fun  of  going  fishing, 
is  thinking  about  it  afterwards. 

After  we  had  got  as  many  fish  as  we 
thought  would  be  about  right  for  supper,  we, 
having  assured  ourselves  that  we  were  on  the 
east  branch  of  the  Pemigewasset,  which  was 
our  objective  point,  turned  our  footsteps 
once  more  toward  the  rising  sun.  A  course 
due  east  was  struck,  and  we  plodded  along, 
constantly  ascending  the  ridge,  which  ran 
nearly  northeast  and  southwest. 

After  we  left  the  river  valley,  we  found 
the  first  bit  of  dry  land  we  had  seen  since 
we  left,  and  it  was  no  great  shakes  at  it 
either. 

Here  the  ground  was  padded  with  tracks 
and  signs  of  deer  and  bear,  but  we  saw 
nothing  of  them,  though  I  heard  a  bear  on 
the  night  before,  by  the  brook,  near  the 
camp. 

At  about  4.30  p.  m.  the  country  ahead 
began  to  look  familiar,  and  shortly  after  we 
struck  a  windfall  on  the  opposite  side  from 
where  we  were  in  the  morning. 

The  camp  of  the  night  before  was  on  the 
other  side  of  that  pile  of  wood,  and  rather 
than  build  a  new  one,  we  decided  to  cross  it. 

11 


160  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

Shades  of  our  grandfathers  !  but  that  was  a 
job. 

Here  were  great  trees,  torn  bodily  from 
the  ground  and  piled  lengthwise,  crosswise, 
and  all  other- wise,  slippery  and  often  brittle, 
with  knapsack  and  gun  to  look  after,  and 
when  a  fall  of  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  meant 
danger  by  impalement  on  the  cruel  looking 
stubs  below. 

It  took  us  forty-five  minutes  to  go  about 
six  hundred  feet,  but  we  got  across  all  safely 
and  before  dark  were  again  comfortably  in- 
stalled at  "Birch  Camp,"  as  we  had  named 
it,  and  busily  engaged  in  refreshing  the  inner 
man  with  broiled  trout. 

As  the  first  rays  of  the  morning  sun 
flecked  the  tree  tops  at  three-fifty  A.  M.,  on 
June  29th,  I  threw  off  the  blankets  and  got 
out  for  a  breath  of  the  pure,  crisp  mountain 
air,  which  soon  gave  me  a  desire  for  some- 
thing more  satisfying. 

Our  menu  was  generally  composed  about 
as  follows  : 

BREAKFAST. 
Hard  Tack.  Fried  Pork.  Coffee. 

LUNCH. 
Raw  Pork.        Hard  Tack.        Water. 


IN    THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  161 

SUPPER. 
Coffee.  Fried  Pork.  Hard  Tack. 

Unless  the  rod  or  gun  turned  in  something 
to  help  out.  But  this  never  got  beyond 
supper. 

But  this  morning,  being  Sunday,  I  thought 
I  would  give  my  companions  who  were  still 
snoring  under  the  blankets,  a  change.  So  I 
put  some  hard  tack  to  soak  in  a  birch  bark 
dish,  and  fried  out  some  pork,  in  which  I 
afterwards  fried  the  crackers  ;  and  let  me  tell 
you,  friends,  that  concoction  is  not  to  be 
sneezed  at,  when  made  with  Johnson's  Edu- 
cators (which  by  the  way,  is  the  best  and 
lightest  variety  of  wheat  nourishment  that  I 
have  found ) ,  and  good  country  corn-fed 
pork.  At  least  I  judged  so,  from  the  man- 
ner in  which  it  disappeared  when  my  com- 
panions got  at  it.  I  had  to  make  some  more 
for  myself. 


Finally  we  packed  our  traps  for  our  last 
journey  toward  civilization.  We  carefully 
extinguished  the  last  embers  of  our  camp- 
fire  ;  cut  the  cords  which  held  the  rude  shelter 


162  LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

which  had  kept  off  the  rains,  took  a  final 
draught  of  the  crystal  waters  which  bubbled 
from  the  mountain  side  and  started  on  our  way 
down  the  loggers'  road. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day ;  hardly  a  cloud 
dimmed  the  crystal  transparency  of  the  blue 
vault  above  us,  and  it  seemed  as  though  one 
could  almost  look  away  into  its  unimaginable 
distance  and  see  the  other  worlds  beyond. 

The  birds,  which  gradually  were  becoming 
more  plentiful  as  we  approached  nearer  the 
railroad,  were  filling  the  air  with  their  music, 
and  tempting  us  to  leave  the  road  to  clamber 
over  the  fallen  logs  and  through  the  under- 
brush which  lay  on  either  side. 

The  road  was  not  as  good  as  I  have  seen, 
in  fact  it  was  at  times  rather  difficult  to  find 
it  at  all,  but  when  we  came  to  a  more  than 
usually  swampy  place,  we  found  corduroys 
laid  over  the  mud,  and  we  "of  two  evils 
chose  the  least,"  and  only  left  the  track  for 
an  occasional  examination  of  some  more  than 
usually  interesting  feature. 

We  had  been  following  the  brook,  at  a 
little  distance  from  the  bank,  for  some  time, 
and  had  heard  a  murmuring  sound  throbbing 
through  the  air,  when  Will  says  : 


IN    THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  163 

"I  think  there  must  be  falls  below  here, 
let's  go  and  investigate  " ;  so  we  pushed  our 
way  through  the  brush  to  the  bank,  and  the 
grandeur  of  a  water-fall  burst  upon  our  view. 
One  hundred  and  twenty-five  feet  above  us 
the  waters  of  this  brook  fell  over  the  edge 
and  striking  its  side,  which  inclined  at  an 
angle  which  gave  it  a  slope  of  about  150  feet, 
slid  down  at  lightning  speed,  breaking  the 
pool  below  into  a  mass  of  foam.  On  either 
side  the  walls  rose  up  in  almost  inaccessible 
precipitousness,  while  below  a  continuous 
series  of  cascades  carried  the  water  to  the 
valley  of  the  Saco,  700  feet  below. 

It  was  hard  to  leave  the  scene. 

Continuing  our  journey,  at  noon  we  came 
out  on  the  side  of  the  mountain  above  Ava- 
lanche Station,  near  where  we  entered  three 
days  before.  But  what  a  change.  Then  the 
sky  was  overcast,  and  the  murky  clouds  hung 
low  over  the  mountain-tops,  hiding  the  peaks 
of  some  of  the  higher  ones  from  view  ;  banks 
of  mist  came  rolling  down  the  Notch,  tempo- 
rarily hiding  it  from  view,  and  the  drizzling 
rain  made  all  uncomfortable.  But  now  all 
was  transformed.  The  air  was  as  clear  as 
possible  in  these  high  altitudes,  where  the 


164       LAKE,  FIELD  AND  FOREST. 

very  atmosphere  seemed  so  transparent 
that  it  almost  dazzled  the  brain  ;  the  Decep- 
tion Mountains  showed  their  stony  wall  rising 
at  the  head  of  the  Notch  seven  miles  away  as 
clearly  as  if  it  were  but  one  ;  and  we  im- 
proved the  opportunity  by  photographing  the 
scene  in  what  is,  we  think,  the  most  remarka- 
ble view  ever  taken  with  a  small  Kodak 
camera  (unfortunately  the  plate  was  damaged 
by  the  stupidity  of  the  operator  who  devel- 
oped the  film) ,  but  even  now  it  stands  as  one 
of  the  choicest  scenes  in  my  album  of  remin- 
iscences. 

No  train  would  run  down  the  Notch  until 
the  next  morning,  so  we  deposited  our  heavy 
luggage  at  the  station,  to  be  forwarded  by 
express,  and  we  continued  on  down  the  val- 
ley, now  following  the  railroad  and  again  tak- 
ing the  road,  as  the  fit  seized  us,  passing  the 
outlets  of  Washington  River,  which  carries 
off  a  portion  of  the  deposited  moisture  of 
the  Old  Giant,  and  Nancy's  Brook,  which 
drains  the  region  of  Mountains  Nancy  and 
Carrigan. 

Frankenstein  Trestle  and  the  old  Crawford 
House,  with  their  many  associations,  were 
left  behind  and  as  we  progressed  on  our  way 


IN    THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  165 

we  had  the  unusual  pleasure  of  viewing  no 
less  than  seven  sunsets,  as  the  various  peaks 
successively  hid  it  from  view  as  we  travelled 
down  the  grade.  We  reached  Bartlett  in 
time  to  go  to  bed,  and  closed  one  of  the 
most  interesting  trips  of  my  experience. 


LIVE  BROOK  TROUT  FOR  STOCKING  STREAMS. 


Prices  on  Application. 

Plymouth  Rock  Trout  Co.,  Plymouth,  Mass. 


A  Handy  Book  For  Gunners  and 
Sportsmen. 


GAME  BIRDS 

Of  NOKTH.AMCNCA 


THE 

GAME  BIRDS 

OF  NORTH  AMERICA, 


BY 

FRANK    A.    BATES. 

President  "Boston  Scientific  Society,"  and  formerly 
Associate  Editor  "  Ornithologist  and  Oologist." 

UUu0trate&. 
16mo,  Cloth.        $1.00. 


This  book  is  designed  for  a  handy  pocket  manual  for 
Gunners,  giving  descriptions  of  124  species  of  Birds  pur- 
sued by  Sportsmen,  with  notes  on  their  habits,  and 
methods  of  hunting  them. 


What  They  Say  About  It. 

"  We  are  pleased  to  commend  this  little  work.  It  is 
concise  and  comprehensive.  It  is  of  such  size  that  it  can 
be  readily  carried  in  the  pocket  of  the  sportsman,  and  we 
believe,  in  this  condensed  form,  it  will  be  the  companion 
of  thousands  of  sportsmen.  For  a  great  many  years  we 
have  needed  just  such  a  volume." — Shooting  and  Fishing. 

"  The  book  is  in  many  respects  a  useful  one,  for  its 
size  makes  it  handy  to  carry  in  the  pocket,  and  its  de- 
scriptions, while  wholly  free  from  technicality,  should  be 
sufficient  to  enable  the  sportsman  in  most  cases  to  deter- 
mine to  what  species  the  bird  he  shoots  may  belong. 
Something  of  this  sort  has  long  been  needed  and  the  vol- 
ume is  likely  to  prove  useful  to  a  large  class  of  men  who 
use  the  gun." — Forest  and  Stream. 


Natural  History 


. .  . AND . .  . 


Sporting  Goods. 


I  am  prepared  to  execute  commissions  from  Sports- 
men and  Naturalists,  for  the  purchase  of  any  goods  re- 
quired by  them,  not  only  in  Books,  Guns,  Revolvers  and 
Fishing  Rods,  but  in  all  of  the  minor  details  which  go  to 
secure  success.  Full  outfits  will  be  supplied  at  any  price, 
quality,  of  course,  depending  on  amount  of  money. 

With  30  years'  experience  in  handling  goods  used  by 
Gunners,  Naturalists  and  Taxidermists,  I  have  secured  a 
line  of  customers  who  prefer  to  buy  through  me,  not  be- 
cause I  can  save  them  money,  although  this  is  often  the 
case,  but  because  it  practically  serves  the  purpose  of  a 
personal  examination,  since  I  exercise  the  same  care  in 
purchasing  for  my  clients  as  for  myself.  Goods  are 
billed  at  regular  retail  prices,  and  no  commissions  are 
charged.  I  depend  upon  the  discounts  obtained  from  the 
dealers  for  my  remuneration. 

Estimates  furnished  free. 

Positively  cash  with  order,  except  from 
regular  customers. 

\  am  also  prepared  to  furnish  Guides  and  Outfits  for 
parties  desiring  to  visit  the  hunting  and  fishing  grounds 
of  Plymouth  and  Worcester  Counties,  or  in  the  State  of 
Maine. 

Can  furnish  best  of  references. 


FRANK    A.    BATES, 

P.  O.  Box  160.  SOUTH  BRAINTREE,  MASS. 


Illustrated 
Guides  in 


Natural 
History. 


Written  and 
Illustrated 

By  EDWARD  KNOBBL. 


The  Trees  and  Shrubs.     With  215  new  illustrations  of  their  leaves. 
Ferns  and  Evergreens.     Withn  full  page  illustrations. 
The  Day  Butterflies  and  Duskflyers.     With  148  new  illustations. 
The  Beetles  and  Their  Kind.     With  580  figures  of  species. 
The  Night  Moths.     With  424  new  illustrations. 
Fresh  Water  Fishes.     With  48  fine  illustrations. 
Turtles,  Snakes,  Frogs,  Etc.     With  56  fine  illustrations. 
Mosquitoes  and  Flies.     With  254  figures  of  the  species. 

Each  book  complete  in  itself,  making  a  perfect  guide. 
Each,  i2mo.     Paper,  50  cts.    Cloth,  75  cts. 

K     PERFECT     BOOK    KT    I-KST. 

Field  Key  to   the  Land  Birds;  In  Nine  Plates. 

A  capital  new  book  on  the  simplest  plan,  for  the  use  of  all  students 
and  observers,  young  and  old;  with  150  figures  of  our  birds  in  colors, 
izmo.,  cloth,  net  $1.75. 

The  Grasses,  Sedges  and  Rushes  of  the  Northern  United  States, 

An  easy  method  for  identifying  them.  An  entirely  new  book 
written  and  beautifully  illustrated  with  many  figures  and  28  full  page 
plates.  i2mo.,  cloth,  net  $1.00. 


FRANK  A.  BATES, 


Scientific 
Books, 


South  Braintree. 


BHTES'  LOEHL  HISTORY  SERIES. 

Ancient  Iron  Works  at  Braintree, 

(First  in  America.} 

Revolutionary  Soldiers  of  Braintree, 
Schools  of  Braintree, 


(OTHERS    TO    FOLLOW.) 
By 

SAMUEL    A.    BATES, 

Vice.President  of  Quincy  Historical  Society.      Honorary  Member  of 
Weymouth,  Old  Colony,  and  Maine  Historical  Societies. 


Author  of  "  History  of  Braintree,  Mass." 

Editor  of  "  Printed  Records  of  Braintree." 


Settled  in  1625,  incorporated  in  1640,  and  the  birth- 
place of  John  Hancock,  John  Adams,  John  Quincy  Adams, 
men  who  stood  as  ramparts  to  the  country  in  her  days  of 
trouble,  the  history  of  this  town  is  fraught  with  interest 
to  everyone,  and,  these  books,  coming  as  they  do,  from 
the  pen  of  one  who  was,  for  twenty-five  years,  clerk  of 
the  town,  and  during  this  time  became  noted  for  his 
erudition  in  ancient  local  history,  they  are  valuable  addi- 
tions to  American  literature. 


Ancient  Iron  Works  at  Braintree. 

The  site  of  the  first  Iron  Works  in  this  country  has 
been  claimed  by  several  towns,  but  the  arguments  of  Mr. 
Bates  convinced  historians  of  the  justice  of  his  arguments. 
His  book  gives  all  the  various  conveyances  of  land  around 
this  grant,  and  locates  explicitly  the  farms  of  many  of  our 
older  settlers.  It  is  extremely  valuable  to  genealogists  as 
well  as  interesting  to  the  historical  student,  and  has  been 
adopted  in  the  schools  of  Braintree  as  supplementary 
reading,  as  has  also  the  last  volume  of  the  series. 

The  Soldiers  of  the  Revolution. 

Is  a  valuable  work  of  reference  to  Sons  and  Daughters  of 
the  Kevolution,  in  enabling  them  to  establish  their  claims, 
as  well  as  many  others ;  for  the  author's  familiarity  with 
the  ancient  families  of  Braintree  was  unsurpassed,  and 
the  ancestors  of  a  majority  of  the  people  in  Eastern  Mas- 
sachusetts are  represented  in  this  book. 

The  Early  Schools  of  Braintree 

Gives  the  history  of  the  services  to  education  of  repre- 
sentatives of  most  of  the  early  families  here,  for  the  town 
dates  its  school  records  back  to  1640,  the  first  year  of  its 
incorporation. 


The  books  of  this  series  are  for  sale  at  the  uniform 
price  of 

25  Cents 


FRANK  A.  BATES,  Publisher, 

South  Braintree,  Mass. 


For  the  convenience  of  the  trade  all  books  are  for 
sale  by 

WHIDDEN, 

18    Arch.    Street,      Boston. 


C.  A.  OGDEN, 

Hallowell,  Me. 

LICENSED    GUIDE 

For  the  Cobbaseecontee  Lake  r^rrrTA/^c  anA 

Trout,   Bass   and   White  Perch  uu '  ' Atjd  ana 

Fishing.  BOATS. 

Also   for  Large  Game  Hunt- 
ing   on    Moo.sehead,    Lobster  Six  miles  from  the  City 
and  Pamadumcook  Lakes,  and  f   Hallnwcll    MP 
neighboring  waters.  ot   nallOWCll,  Me. 


R 


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